I jumped. My thoughts had been very far away, filling in gaps.
"You'll have to play with me," said Wright. "I understand all your signals, Mercedes!"
"But you don't profit by them," she answered, as we came within sight of the house.
I played a wretched game that evening. I couldn't keep my mind on the cards. It was off—back at the Country Club again, listening to a poet talk of poets: it was wondering a little about the "Denton Free Clinic": and, in consequence, I revoked twice, to the extreme amusement of our opponents.
"Haven't come to the point where you swear at your wife at the bridge-table, have you Bill?" asked Wright, as he carefully took the penalty.
"No," replied my husband, "that's a form of indoor sport I could never quite understand. It doesn't seem fair—for she couldn't swear back."
"Oh, couldn't I?" said I with ardour.
"I shan't give you the opportunity," he answered. "And now, if you please, one no trump."
The game broke up rather early. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Wright and Mercedes, with the excuse that they were keenly interested in astronomy, walked out on the verandah. I told them good-night.
"You'll stay to chaperone the Irresponsibles?" I asked my husband.