“And they say women are envious!” exclaimed his sister.
“Are you a feminist, Mrs. Almar?” inquired the irrepressible Wickham.
“No, just a female, Mr. Wickham.”
“I never thought a big bony nose made a man a beauty,” grumbled Hickson.
“Ah, how much wisdom there is in that reply of yours, Mrs. Almar,” said Wickham. “Just a female. Your meaning is, if I interpret you rightly, that you are content with the duties and charms which Nature has bestowed upon your sex—”
“Until I can get something better,” replied Nancy briskly, drawing the score toward her and beginning to add it up. “My idea is to let the other women do the fighting; if they win, I shall profit; if they lose, I’m no worse off. I believe I’ve rubiconed you again, Mr. Wickham.”
“Well, I don’t understand women’s taste, anyhow,” said Hickson.
“You never spoke a truer word than that, my dear,” said Nancy. “Seventy-four fifty, I think that makes it, Mr. Wickham, subtracting the dollar and a half you made on the first game. Oh, yes, a check will do perfectly. I’m less likely to lose it.”
“I never had a worse run of luck,” observed Wickham with an attempt at indifference.
Mrs. Almar stood up yawning. “Doubtless you are on the brink of a great amorous triumph,” she said languidly, and went off to bed.