Just at that moment, as it happened, Morchard was engaged upon a psychological problem very much after his own heart. He had played bridge that evening with a steadily growing satisfaction. To him, Eileen Cressage’s face had been an open book; and he had read without difficulty the thoughts which passed through her mind.
“That girl’s in difficulties,” he had ruminated, as the game progressed. “I know the signs. She’ll not be able to pay. I know the Scorton; she’ll want her money. Little Cressage hasn’t a blue cent. I like these dark-haired, pale-skinned girls, especially when they’re rather shy, like her.”
The incident of the cheque had been clear as glass.
“The Scorton won’t collect much on that, or I’m mistaken. It’ll come back with ‘Refer to Drawer’ on it, sure enough. And the girl knows it, too. She’s just staved off trouble for a few hours. That is, unless someone else foots the bill. Two hundred’s only a flea-bite.”
He had wandered down to the Pool beside Eileen without saying very much. That would give her time to think over things and to realise what a hole she had got herself into. Card-debts were things one simply had to pay. At one point only he had broken the silence, and then it was to relate an anecdote of Mrs. Caistor Scorton, an anecdote which brought out to the full the hardness of that lady’s character where money was concerned. When they reached the shore, he glanced round to see that no one was within ear-shot. The figures of Mrs. Brent and her companion, hidden in the belt of trees, escaped his eye.
“Sorry you had bad luck to-night, Miss Cressage. Cards were rather against you people.”
Eileen Cressage’s voice was not quite under control. She tried to steady it and speak lightly.
“I suppose one must expect that, now and again.”
“Oh, yes. Your turn last night; ours to-night. Yours again to-morrow night, very likely. We’ll give you a chance for your revenge then.”
Eileen thought of her worthless cheque and shivered a little. No matter how things went, there would be no bridge for her next night.