During his mooning about he had passed several times a little girl who
looked English. She sat on a seat in the far corner--a strange, shy,
timid child, watching with a half-frightened wonder the
strikingly-dressed women and children who strolled up and down,
chattering shrilly. He gave her but indifferent glances as he passed;
but, thanks to his father's careful training of his natural gift of
observation, the indifferent glance of that child of the world took in
more of a fellow-creature than most men's careful scrutiny. He saw
that she was frail and big-eyed, that her frock was ill-fitting and
shabby, her hat shabbier, her shoes ready-made, that she wore no
gloves, and that her mass of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts
at tidiness to her own brushing. He summed her up as that archetype of
patience, the gambler's neglected child.
Just before he went to his dejeuner, he saw that she was sitting there
still. He took that meal with his father and Lord Crosland; and
instead of hurrying off, directly he had eaten his dessert, to some
pressing and generally mischievous business, he sat listening to their
talk over their coffee and cigars, and only left them at the doors of
the Casino.
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