The game was a small one, as befitted the means of the majority.
It was a regular Saturday night affair, as much a custom as the
beer that sat in Steins on the floor beside each man, or as
Marie's boiled Wiener sausages.
The blue chips represented a Krone, the white ones five Hellers.
MacLean, who was hardly more than a boy, was winning, drawing in
chips with quick gestures of his long pianist's fingers.
Byrne sat down and picked up his cards. Stewart was staying out,
and so, after a glance, did he. The other three drew cards and
fell to betting. Stewart leaned back and filled his long pipe,
and after a second's hesitation Byrne turned to him.
"I don't know just what to say, Stewart," he began in an
undertone. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt Marie, but--"
"Oh, that's all right." Stewart drew at his pipe and bent forward
to watch the game with an air of ending the discussion.
"Not at all. I did hurt her and I want to explain. Marie has been
kind to me, and I like her. You know that."
"Don't be an ass!" Stewart turned on him sharply. "Marie is a
little fool, that's all. I didn't know it was an American girl."
Byrne played in bad luck. His mind was not on the cards. He
stayed out of the last hand, and with a cigarette wandered about
the room. He glanced into the tidy bedroom and beyond, to where
Marie hovered over the stove.
She turned and saw him.
"Come," she called. "Watch the supper for me while I go down for
more beer.
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