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.