“Oh, what a shame!”
Miss Forster sank into the vacated seat immediately, with a loud sigh of relief.
“Have you had a pleasant afternoon with your friends?” Mrs. Bulteel inquired. She was always inordinately curious about the social engagements of other people, but Miss Forster’s garrulousness needed no questionings.
“A topping afternoon!” she declared with youthful slanginess. “Never held such cards, either. What do you think of eight hearts to the Ace, King, Queen?”
The Greek gentleman, to whom she appealed, was non-committal.
“It depends who was holding them,” he replied laconically.
“Well, I was, of course. My partner’s deal—he’d gone no trumps; they doubled, and of course I redoubled, and we made the little slam. Jolly, eh? though I prefer something with rather more play in it, myself.”
“Such as last night,” grimly suggested the Greek, in unkind allusion to an incident that Miss Forster might reasonably be supposed to prefer forgotten.
“Haven’t you forgotten that horrid diamond suit of yours yet?” cried the lady, shaking an admonitory forefinger. “It was certainly a slip, and I can’t think how I came to make it.”
“You took the lead out of your partner’s hand,” piped Mrs. Clarence, with a sudden display of knowledge that caused Miss Forster, the recognized Bridge expert of the house until the Greek gentleman’s recent arrival, to look at her in astonished resentment.