“I suppose so. No business of mine,” retorted Mrs. Brent, shortly.
She turned slightly round in her chair, however, and studied the faces of the players at Eileen’s table. Things were going very badly for the girl. She was the worst of the four, and in addition, her nerve was going, and her play was growing more and more reckless. That night she had sat down with the pleasant feeling that in an hour or two she would have won something more towards the payment of these bills which still hung over her. But somehow, this evening, things were different. Instead of Conway Westenhanger, she had Eric Dangerfield as a partner; and without quite realising what the change meant she had found that the games did not run so smoothly as they had done on the night before. Once or twice she had miscalculated, and her partner had left her to fend for herself. A run of bad cards had eaten still further into her nerve.
And then, suddenly, she had realised how much she had already lost; and she had begun to play more wildly in the hope of recouping herself. The gains of the previous evening were gone by now, and she was steadily running up a score against herself. She began to feel the heat of the night; and her play became more erratic.
Mrs. Brent studied her face for a round or two without comment. Then she turned to the American with an expression which might almost have been an ill-concealed sneer.
“If either of us was a philanthropist, Mr. Wraxall, I think we could find a field for our talents by persuading that girl to stop before she makes matters worse. She’s making a fool of herself.”
“I judge so from her looks. I don’t play bridge. It seems to me to lack the complete psychological satisfaction that poker gives. And it hasn’t the swiftness of faro. It’s too slow and not brainy enough. I regard it as a dud game.”
Mrs. Brent turned her back to the bridge-table.
“Well, if we worried ourselves about other people’s troubles we should have a full life of it,” she said. “As I told you the other night, I’m not a professing philanthropist.”
The American made no direct reply.
“You’ve got a headache?” he asked.