But to such a man as Bill Chester, the sight
of the woman for whom he had always felt a very sincere respect, as well
as a far more enduring and jealous affection than he quite realised,
sitting there at a public gaming table, was a staggering--nay, a
disgusting--spectacle.
He reminded himself angrily that Sylvia had a good income--so good an
income that she very seldom spent it all in the course of any one year.
Why, therefore, should she wish to increase it?
Above all, how could she bear to mingle with this queer, horrid crowd?
Why should she allow herself to be contaminated by breathing the same
air as some of the women who were there round her? She and the stout,
middle-aged person standing behind her were probably the only
"respectable" women in the Club.
And then, it was all so deliberate! Chester had once seen a man whom he
greatly respected drunk, and the sight had ever remained with him. But,
after all, a man may get drunk by accident--nay, it may almost be said
that a man always gets drunk by accident. But, in this matter of risking
her money at the baccarat table, Sylvia Bailey knew very well what she
was about.
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