feelings. Then the parlor brightened up. There entered female figures in gay, fantastic raiments, a bold glance in their burning eyes, their alabaster bosoms uncovered, their hair exhaling pungent perfumes, their arms bare, their calves filled out,—in short, these are the bankrupts of feeling, who in this gambling-house of the world play for a piece of bread. To-day they have youth, beauty, jests and smiles,—to-morrow another card will fall for them, and everything is forever lost. . . .
They greeted the guest with a mute inclination of their heads, while he scanned them with a forced and cold glance. They lighted their cigarettes, hummed tunes, made careless jests,—just as they had the day before, and as, perchance, they would again on the morrow.
“There, that slender one in the black dress,” the madam whispered to the guest. “I take the liberty of recommending her to your kind attention.”
