“I was saying,” shrilled the minor critic in his thin jerky voice, “that the man who does not play whist is laying up a sad old age for himself.”
The old baronet shook his head:
Fosse licked his lips sullenly:
“The man who doesn’t play whist,” shrieked Fosse, reddening miserably.
“What about him?” asked Sir Gilders peremptorily.
“Lays up a sad old age for himself,” screamed the miserable little man.
The old gentleman knit his brows:
“A reformed rake?” he asked testily....
But attention was diverted from the fussy little minor critic’s despair by the murmur of admiration which greeted the entrance into the room of a beautiful woman to whom Quogge Myre was paying aggressively marked court as the announcement of her name called the regard of the assembled guests to her arrival. Myre was ever for stealing the lime-light. He was a born filcher of honour. But the beauty’s calm dismissal of him, as she swept towards her host, gave Myre a sudden hysteric desire to talk loudly and hide his chagrin; and he turned at the sound of Fosse’s voice, raised in argument, as hyena goes to offal. Fosse in his despair had turned from Sir Gilders, and launched into the discussion round about him: