There was but a brief separation of the sexes at the end of dinner, the whole party within a short space of time adjourning to the ugly, old-fashioned splendours of the drawing-room, where card-playing went on as usual.
A game of whist was got up among the elders for the benefit of old Solomon, the others preferring to embark on the excitements of Polish bank with the exception of Leo, who never played cards, and Judith, who was anxious to finish a piece of embroidery she was preparing for her mother’s birthday.
Reuben, who had dutifully offered himself as a whist-player and been cut out, lingered a few moments, divided between the expediency of challenging fortune at Polish bank, and the pleasantness of joining the girlish figure at the far end of the room.
Adelaide, shuffling her cards with deft, accustomed fingers, looked up and read something of his indecision in her brother’s face.
“There’s a place here, Reuben,” she called out, drawing her silken skirts from a chair on to which they had overflowed.
She was not a person of tact; her remark, and the tone of it, turned the balance.
“No, thanks,” said Reuben, dropping his lids and assuming his most imperturbable air.
It was not his custom to single out Judith for his attentions at these family gatherings, but to-night some irresistible magnetism drew him towards her. It only wanted that little goad from Adelaide to send him deliberately to the ottoman where she sat at work, her beautiful head bent over the many-coloured embroidery.
Leo, lounging discontentedly a few paces off, with something of the air of a petulant child who is ashamed of itself, twisted a bit of silk in his long-brown fingers and hummed the air of Ich grolle nicht below his breath.
“Judith,” said Reuben, taking a seat very close beside her and looking straight at her face, “poor Ronaldson, the member for St. Baldwin’s, is dangerously ill.”