What was he doing?
No matter: it was a game, in which nothing was sure--nothing save this girl.

She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing passion, throw all things away for him.
Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself, absolute, true, abiding.

His nature swam gloriously in his daring exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous recklessness; it was his victory or his doom.

But it was a shake of the dice--had Fate loaded them against him?
He looked up the hill towards the Manor.

Life was there in its essence; beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own.