"No, no! She’s as square as a die; but she wins too much, stakes too much—smokes too much, drinks too many cocktails—she and her sister, too. Why, they’ve won steadily at cards from the beginning. They’ve a genius for it. _I_ never saw such playing. Poor cards don’t worry them; and they never take the shadow of advantage, never whine, never ask questions; there’s never an impatient word, a look of protest—and the judge and the colonel are beasts to play with!—and if there ever seems to be the slightest doubt or indication of a dispute over any point, those girls instantly concede it—cheerfully, too! They’re clean-cut sports—thoroughbred.... But, by God! I don’t want Jack to marry a gambler!" He stood up, his glasses glistening, his little burned eyes fixed on space. "No," he said; "I’ve done all the gambling that will be done in this family. I’ll do a little more—enough to put the bits on one or two men in New York whose wives could make it easy for my children, if they cared to. Then I’m done, mother." She bent her head, and her lips moved. "What?" he said, hand to his ear. "I was only thinking, Jacob, that I would be happy when you have finished with—business." "Don’t worry, dear." He put one arm around her—a thin arm in its loose coat sleeve, thin as a tempered steel rod. She laid her faded face against it, comforted by its inflexibility. "Some day," she said, "when the children are happy—with their families——" "Yes, yes," he nodded; "a smaller house for you and me—just a little one." He smiled; few people ever had seen him smile. "Just a little house for two little old people," he said; "only one horse to take us about, one servant to feed us—eh, Sarah?" She looked around her, smiling vaguely at the magnificence. "I like to dust," she said, coloring up prettily, "and to make jelly.... I’ve wanted to a long while." "You shall do it; I swear you shall. By God! I’ll be glad when that chef is fired!" "You know, Jacob," she said timidly, "with knitting and dusting and—and a little kitchen work—and you—the day passes very nicely." "Some day you’ll make some more of those crullers!" he predicted; "mark my words!" "And the cinnamon shells," she added, slightly excited. "Oh, Lord! Why can’t that fool of a chef make ’em!" he burst out. "Well, I’ll wait.... It gives us something more to wait for, doesn’t it?" He laughed. Only his wife had ever heard the dry cackle which was his manifestation of mirth. Contented, she lifted her face, and he kissed her. He went to New York that evening to remain over Wednesday as usual. In the small company remaining at Adriutha a certain intimacy had developed, enough to make any effort at entertainment superfluous. There was now a decided inclination to laziness in the evening, and a preference for the billiard room and its easy informality.