“Pshaw!” said Caroline, carefully sorting a hand that contained four aces and three kings. “It is only skin deep. Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton. I declare no trumps.”
“I shall not double,” said Cheriton, who found himself in possession of a “Yarborough.”
In a very short space of time, Cheriton and Miss Burden had suffered the indignity of the “grand slam.”
“Well played, partner,” said George, as soon as he woke up.
There can be really no question at all that few persons could have played their cards better than Caroline Crewkerne, when that old woman found herself with a good hand. And few persons found themselves oftener in that enviable position than did she. Certainly this evening she surpassed herself. It is true that the cards came her way in the most surprising fashion. But she utilized them to the full; and further, she took advantage of the mistakes of her principal adversary.
It was not often that Cheriton was guilty of flagrant errors, but on this occasion he certainly held bad cards, and to these he added unmistakably inferior play. He forgot important cards constantly; and twice at a critical moment he revoked. Caroline was in the highest glee. Everything went right for her; and the sum she won from Cheriton it would not be wise or right to divulge, lest it shock the less affluent among our readers. It was not really enough “to endow a hospital for the incurably insane,” as Cheriton declared it was, but it certainly enabled the lucky Caroline to contemplate the purchase of a few of those Westralians which she had coveted for some time past.
Happily neither Miss Burden nor George Betterton could afford to play for money; the former because her salary of forty pounds per annum was her only means of subsistence; the latter because his high rank rendered it necessary that in all respects his life should be a pattern to his admiring countrymen. We have no desire to lower a very worthy man in the public estimation, but this desire for respectability did not prevent his losing continually at piquet to Caroline Crewkerne. But then piquet is not like bridge. The one is old and of good report; the other is new and plutocratic.
A little after midnight George Betterton retired in earnest to his virtuous repose, while Miss Burden followed his example. And no sooner had the hostess and her old friend the field to themselves than they reverted to the topic of the previous night. The matter had been left in an interesting stage. Cheriton felt it to be a hopeful one. He was sure that he had no serious rival to contend against, for George with all his flourishes was sure to end by marrying Priscilla. The Georges of this world invariably marry the Priscillas.
“I am willing to tie three thousand a year upon the creature,” said Cheriton. His tone was not exactly that of an auctioneer, although his standard of wisdom rendered it necessary that he should always suit his discourse to his company. “Upon the condition, my dear Caroline, that you tie an equal sum upon her. And there is also a living in my gift worth eleven hundred a year which is likely to be vacant.”
So much for the terms. Caroline Crewkerne pondered them well. She was a shrewd, covetous, hard-headed, hard-hearted old woman. But if she took a thing in hand she carried it through. And she had determined to do something for her dead and disgraced sister’s portionless daughter. Up to a point she was able to plume herself upon the success of the negotiations. What she did not like was the sacrifice of some of her own money. It would not make the least difference to her. She had more already than she knew what to do with, but to part with her substance always hurt her.