The numbers of the various tables were being drawn, as she spoke, from a vase on the drawing-room table.
"And you, M. Joyselle? Thirteen. Oh, what awful luck!"
Everyone screamed with laughter, for the Norman was looking with unfeigned concern at his bit of paper.
"Je n'aime pas le treize, madame," he protested, disregarding the prevailing mirth.
"But—what can I do? It's a nice table in the billiard-room. Who's your partner?"
"Lady Sophy Browne—which is she?"
"Oh, Sophy Browne. Go on drawing, you men, I must speak to Fred. I say, Fred——"
The good-natured Cassowary tramped across to the door where the Sparrow was standing, and bending down, said something to him.
"Is he really? I say, that's too bad. But you can't change the tables, can you, dear?"
"I don't know. These kind of people are so superstitious, you see; it's enough to make him glum all the evening, and Sophy was so keen—she says he looks like a bust by Rodin, and she wants to do him in pen and ink."