evil eye. Her stake was gone. No matter; she had been
winning ever since she took to roulette with a few napoleons at
command, and had a considerable reserve. She had begun to believe in
her luck, others had begun to believe in it: she had visions of being
followed by a _cortege_ who would worship her as a goddess of luck and
watch her play as a directing augury. Such things had been known of
male gamblers; why should not a woman have a like supremacy? Her friend
and chaperon who had not wished her to play at first was beginning to
approve, only administering the prudent advice to stop at the right
moment and carry money back to England--advice to which Gwendolen had
replied that she cared for the excitement of play, not the winnings. On
that supposition the present moment ought to have made the flood-tide
in her eager experience of gambling. Yet, when her next stake was swept
away, she felt the orbits of her eyes getting hot, and the certainty
she had (without looking) of that man still watching her was something
like a pressure which begins to be torturing. The more reason to her
why she should not flinch, but go on playing as if she were indifferent
to loss or gain. Her friend touched her elbow and proposed that they
should quit the table. For reply Gwendolen put ten louis on the same
spot: she was in that mood of defiance in which the mind loses sight of
any end beyond the satisfaction of enraged resistance; and with the
puerile stupidity of a dominant impulse includes luck among its objects
of defiance. Since she was not winning strikingly, the next best thing
was to lose strikingly. She controlled her muscles, and showed no
tremor of mouth or hands. Each time her stake was swept off she doubled
it. Many were now watching her, but the sole observation she was
conscious of was Deronda's, who, though she never looked toward him,
she was sure had not moved away. Such a drama takes no long while to
play out: development and catastrophe can often be measured by nothing
clumsier than the moment-hand. "Faites votre jeu, mesdames et
messieurs," said the automatic voice of destiny from between the
mustache and imperial of the croupier: and Gwendolen's arm was
stretched to deposit her last poor heap of napoleons. "Le jeu ne va
plus," said destiny. And in five seconds Gwendolen turned from the
table, but turned resolutely with her face toward Deronda and looked at
him. There was a smile of irony in his eyes as their glances me