sly. "I only wish there were! You are going on to Switzerland
to join your friends, and as for me, in spite of Madame Cagliostra's
mysterious predictions, I shall, of course, go to some place--I think it
will be Dieppe (I like the Dieppe Casino the best)--where I can play. And
the memory of you, my dear little English friend, will be my mascot. You
heard her say that I should be fortunate--that I should have an
extraordinary run of good fortune?"

"Yes," said Sylvia, "but do not forget"--she spoke with a certain
gravity; death was a very real thing to her, for she had seen in the last
two years two deathbeds, that of her father, that of her husband--"do not
forget, Anna, that she told you you would not live long if you went
away."

"She was quite safe in saying that to me," replied the other hastily.
"People who play--those who get the gambling fever into their system when
they are still young--do not, as a rule, live very long. Their emotions
are too strong, too often excited! Play should be reserved for the
old--the old get so quickly deadened, they do not go through the terrible
moments younger people do!"

CHAPTER III

On the morning after her visit to Madame Cagliostra, Sylvia Bailey woke
later than usual. She had had a disturbed night, and it was pleasant to
feel that she could spend a long restful day doing nothing, or only
taking part in one of the gay little expeditions which make Paris to
a stranger the most delightful of European capitals.

She opened wide both the windows of her room, and from outside there
floated in a busy, happy murmur, for Paris is an early city, and nine
o'clock there is equivalent to eleven o'clock in London.

She heard the picturesque street cries of the flower-sellers in the
Avenue de l'Opera--"Beflower yourselves, gentlemen and ladies, beflower
yourselves!"

The gay, shrill sounds floated in to her, and, in spite of her bad night
and ugly dreams, she felt extraordinarily well and happy.

Cities are like people. In some cities one feels at home at once; others
remain, however well acquainted we become with them, always strangers.

Sylvia Bailey, born, bred, married, widowed in an English provincial
town, had always felt strange in London. But with Paris,--dear,
delightful, sunny Paris,--she had become on the closest, the most
affectionately intimate terms from the first day. She had only been
here a month, and yet she already knew with familiar knowledge the
quarte