Nora was not particularly pleased with this phase in the play. Courtlandt would find a valiant champion in her father, who would blunder in when some fine passes were being exchanged. And she could not tell him; she would have cut out her tongue rather. It was true that she held the principal cards in the game, but she could not table them and claim the tricks as in bridge. She must patiently wait for him to lead, and he, as she very well knew, would lead a card at a time, and then only after mature deliberation. From the exhilaration which attended the prospect of battle she passed into a state of depression, which lasted the rest of the afternoon.
“Will you forgive me?” asked Celeste of Courtlandt. Never had she felt more ill at ease. For a full ten minutes he chatted pleasantly, with never the slightest hint regarding the episode in Paris. She could stand it no longer. “Will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“That night in Paris.”
“Do not permit that to bother you in the least. I was never going to recall it.”
“Was it so unpleasant?”
“On the contrary, I was much amused.”
“I did not tell you the truth.”
“So I have found out.”
“I do not believe that it was you,” impulsively.