In a mild, a very mild, way Sylvia Bailey had fallen a victim to the
Goddess of Play. She soon learned to look forward to the hours she and
Anna Wolsky spent each day at the baccarat tables. But, unlike Anna,
Sylvia was never tempted to risk a greater sum on that dangerous green
cloth than she could comfortably afford to lose, and perhaps just because
this was so, on the whole she won money rather than lost it.
A certain change had come over the relations of the two women. They still
met daily, if only at the Casino, and they occasionally took a walk or a
drive together, but Madame Wolsky--and Sylvia Bailey felt uneasy and
growing concern that it was so--now lived for play, and play alone.
Absorbed in the simple yet fateful turns of the game, Anna would remain
silent for hours, immersed in calculations, and scarcely aware of what
went on round her. She and Monsieur Wachner--"L'Ami Fritz," as even
Sylvia had fallen into the way of calling him--seemed scarcely alive
unless they were standing or sitting round a baccarat table, putting down
or taking up the shining gold pieces which they treated as carelessly as
if they were counters.
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