Five minutes later play was in full swing. Sylvia did not in the least understand the game of Baccarat, and she would have been surprised indeed had she been told that the best account of it ever written is that which describes it as "neither a recreation nor an intellectual exercise, but simply a means for the rapid exchange of money well suited to persons of impatient temperament." With fascinated eyes, Sylvia watched Anna put down her gold pieces on the green cloth. 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. She began to understand the at once very simple and, to the uninitiated, intricate game of Baccarat--to long, as Anna Wolsky longed, for the fateful nine, eight, five, and four to be turned up. She had fifty francs in her purse, and she ached to risk a gold piece. "Do you think I might put down ten francs?" she whispered to Anna. And the other laughed, and exclaimed, "Yes, of course you can!" Sylvia put down a ten-franc piece, and a moment later it had become twenty francs. "Leave it on," murmured Anna, "and see what happens--" Sylvia followed her friend's advice, and a larger gold piece was added to the two already there. She took up the forty francs with a curious thrill of joy and fear. But then an untoward little incident took place. One of the liveried men-servants stepped forward. "Has Madame got her card of membership?" he inquired smoothly.