Then she noted the cards as they were dealt out, and listened, it must be admitted, uncomprehendingly, to the mysterious words which told how the game was going.

Still she sympathised very heartily with her friend when Anna's gold pieces were swept away, and she rejoiced as heartily when gold was added to Anna's little pile.
They both stood, refusing the seats which were pressed upon them.
Suddenly Sylvia Bailey, looking up from the green cloth, saw the eyes of the man who held the Bank fixed full upon her.
The Comte de Virieu did not gaze at the young English woman with the bold, impersonal stare to which she had become accustomed--his glance was far more thoughtful, questioning, and in a sense kindly.

But his eyes seemed to pierce her through and through, and suddenly her heart began to beat very fast.

Yet no colour came into her face--indeed, Sylvia grew pale.
She looked down at the table, but even so she remained conscious of that piercing gaze turned on her, and with some surprise she found herself keenly visualising the young man's face.
Alone among all the people in the room, the Comte de Virieu looked as if he lived a more or less outdoor life; his face was tanned, his blue eyes were very bright, and the hands dealing out the cards were well-shaped and muscular.

Somehow he looked very different, she could hardly explain how or why, from the men round him.
At last she moved round, so as to avoid being opposite to him.
Yes, she felt more comfortable now, and slowly, almost insensibly, the glamour of play began to steal over Sylvia Bailey's senses.