d been concerned--that it
would be wise to stop. The spin of the wheel began to exert a
fascination over his mind, appealing to all that was adventurous in him.
Not once was he conscious of putting on a stake for the sake of the
money it might gain; not once did he hesitate from fear of loss. It was
the call of the unknown that lured him, the thrilling doubt as to where
the ball would stop.

The little dancing white thing, magical as a silver bullet, seemed a
miniature incarnation of destiny, spinning his fate. Always Vanno was
pricked by the desire to try again, and see if he could once more
foretell the result. There lay the poignant, the indescribable charm: in
not knowing.

He saw now that he had misjudged gamblers in believing them all to be
mercenary, at least at the moment of gambling. Some might be so, many
perhaps; but he began to realize that the chief appeal was to the
imaginative temperament, such as he knew his own, and guessed Mary's, to
be.

When his stake was larger than usual--larger a good deal than he could
afford in prudence--he revelled in the uncertainty of the event which he
intensely desired. And it dawned in his mind that this was the true
intoxication of the gambler, the delicious anguish of playing with the
unknown. It was a more dangerous intoxication than he had supposed it to
be, because more subtle, as the effect of cocaine or morphia is more
insidious than that of alcohol.

Like a hunter, he pursued the game until, to his great surprise, a
croupier announced, "Les trois derniers." It was almost impossible to
believe that he had sat at the table for hours.

By this time Vanno had abandoned all attempt to check his winnings and
losses. It was not until he had gathered up his money and counted it on
leaving the table that he knew he had lost not only his winnings, but
three thousand francs besides. The discovery filled him with a peculiar,
bitter annoyance, as if an alkaloid fluid ran through his veins: and
this not because of the loss, which was comparatively insignificant, but
because he had failed, because he had been ignominiously beaten by the
bank. He had had his luck, and had stupidly thrown it away, after the
manner of all those fools for whom he had felt a superior, pitying
contempt. Still, he was not sorry that he had played. His short
experience of roulette and the curious exhilaration the spin of the
wheel had given brought him nearer to understanding Mary than he had
ever