“Now, Mamma!” Corinne’s vigorous young voice broke in. “You simply cannot lead every time I take a trick. It’s—it’s ridiculous. This is my play.”
“If the Witherbys are going to have a set to, there’ll be no use in my reading aloud till they’ve fought it out,” the Judge said to himself, and lost himself as promptly as possible in the “exclusive.”
“Corinne! You are speaking to your mother!” Mrs. Witherby so informed her daughter, when she could get her breath. Dr. Wells hastened to intervene.
“I think,” he said, “that on the whole it might be as well to play in turn. Of course, I make no rule”—a deprecating gesture toward his bristling partner forbade her to think he would presume to make rules for her—“but it is generally done, I believe.” He rose, beamed benignly. “Your card.” He passed it to her.
Corinne tossed her head at her mother and led the round.
When her turn came, Mrs. Witherby threw down the knave of hearts and gathered up the cards.
“Trumps! Our trick, doctor,” she cried victoriously. Her success was greeted with a profound silence, broken at last by Dr. Wells; he coughed. Andrews, seeing that Corinne was about to express herself with her customary frankness, flung himself into the breach.
“Er—you overlooked—oh, quite by accident, of course—er—you have the three of clubs in your hand.”
“I refuse to play with any one—any one—who is capable of looking at my hand.”
The sensitive Mr. Andrews turned the peony-red which is specially inflicted upon sandy, blond men.