“I did not look at your hand,” he protested, with mild heat. “You played the three of clubs when you led off, just now, in your daughter’s place—oh, by mistake, of course. It is still in your hand.”
“Your card,” the doctor murmured, politely handing it to her. Corinne gathered up the trick.
“Another round finishes the game. Come on, Mrs. Witherby. You must put your best foot forward and cast these young people into the shade,” Dr. Wells urged in his cheeriest tones, obviously endeavouring to banish the sour gloom that had settled on his partner’s spirit. A darting, knifelike glance of her eyes told that he had failed.
“My foot is not of such dimensions as to cast a shade over two persons,” sourly. “I don’t understand your allusion.”
Again the peace-loving Andrews flew like the dove upon the storm.
“Of course, Mrs. Witherby, you will be one of Mrs. Lee’s breakfast party to-morrow?” he said, and thus gave Mrs. Lee the opportunity she needed. She had begun to wonder how she was to introduce her topic sympathetically in the discordant atmosphere of one of Mrs. Witherby’s “card-game humours.”
“Did I hear my name?” she asked, turning to them.
“I mentioned your breakfast party,” Andrews replied quickly. “It is to be at eleven o’clock, is it not?”
“Yes. But everyone is to be there by a quarter to eleven, so that we can be prompt in beginning.”
“To be sure. Ah. The breakfast party.” The Judge looked over his paper.