Betty started. Then—
"So I did," she said guiltily. "I meant diamonds."
"I see," said her husband grimly. "After all, they're both red, aren't they?"
Here the laughter which Anne and Anthony had been endeavouring to restrain broke out tempestuously. Betty's procedure and bearing at the Bridge table would have unhinged an enthusiast, but since the four domestics played for amusement and a penny a hundred her short-comings hurt nobody and were highly diverting.
With a sorrowful look at his opponents, George proceeded laboriously to amass three tricks.
With the game went the rubber, and by mutual consent the party broke up. It was half-past nine, and all had duties to do. Anne went singing to fill Mrs. Bumble's hot-water bottle, and Betty to heat the milk which it was her mistress's practice to consume at bed-time. Mr. Bumble, as became his sex, favoured something more substantial, and light refreshment in the shape of a ham sandwich and a bottle of beer before retiring suited him admirably. In Anthony he had a conscientious victualler. The sandwich was invariably fresh, the bottle of beer untasted, the glass clean. Mr. Bumble had marked these qualities and hugged himself.
This night, when Anthony entered the dressing-room, his master was sitting coatless upon a chair.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Lyveden, "I hope you've not been waiting."
"No, no," was the cheery reply. "Not your fault, me boy. I'm early. There now! Maria!" Mrs. Bumble appeared in her doorway in a red dressing-gown. "Look at that there tray, me dear. Ain't it a treat?"
"Deluscious!" said Mrs. Bumble.