“Miss Carrington two generations hence. Lord! how do they do it?” thought Croyden.
“You play Bridge, of course, Mr. Croyden,” said Miss Carrington, when the dessert was being served.
“I like it very much,” he answered.
“I was sure you did—so sure, indeed, I asked a few friends in later—for a rubber or two—and to meet you.”
“So it’s well for me I play,” he smiled.
“It is indeed!” laughed Mrs. Carrington—“that is, if you care aught for Davila’s good opinion. If one can’t play Bridge one would better not be born.”
“When you know Mother a little better, Mr. Croyden, you will recognize that she is inclined to exaggerate at times,” said Miss Carrington. “I admit that I am fond of the game, that I like to play with people who know how, and who, at the critical moment, are not always throwing the wrong card—you understand?”
“In other words, you haven’t any patience with stupidity,” said Croyden. “Nor have I—but we sometimes forget that a card player is born, not made. All the drilling and teaching one can do won’t give card sense to one who hasn’t any.”
“Precisely!” Miss Carrington exclaimed, “and life is too short to bother with such people. They may be very charming otherwise, but not across the Bridge table.” 72
“Yet ought you not to forgive them their misplays, just because they are charming?” Mrs. Carrington asked. “If you were given your choice between a poor player who is charming, and a good player who is disagreeable, which would you choose, Mr. Croyden?—Come, now be honest.”