“I think we had better take our places,” said Maud Barrington, with unveiled contempt.
Witham’s forehead grew a trifle hot, and when he sat down Barrington glanced at him. “I should explain that we never allow stakes of any kind at Silverdale,” he said. “Some of the lads sent out to me have been a trifle extravagant in the old country.”
He dealt out the cards, but a trace of bewildered irritation crept into his eyes as the game proceeded, and once or twice he appeared to check an exclamation of astonishment, while at last he glanced reproachfully at Witham.
“My dear sir! Still, you have ridden a long way,” he said, laying his finger on a king.
Witham laughed to hide his dismay. “I am sorry, sir. It was scarcely fair to my partner. You would, however, have beaten us, anyway.”
Barrington gravely gathered up the cards. “We will,” he said, “have some music. I do not play poker.”
Then, for the first time, Witham lost his head in his anger. “Nor do I, sir.”
Barrington only looked at him, but the farmer felt as though somebody had struck him in the face, and as soon as he conveniently could, bade Miss Barrington good night.
“But we expected you would stay here a day or two. Your place is not ready,” she said.
Witham smiled at her. “I think I am wise. I must feel my way.”