“I’ll double!” said Miss Tilghman.
“I’ll go back!”
“Content.”
“Somebody will win the rubber, this hand,” Miss Erskine platitudinized,—with the way such persons have of announcing a self evident fact—as she spread out her hand. “It is fair support, partner.”
Croyden nodded. Then proceeded with much apparent 86 thought and deliberation, to play the hand like the veriest tyro.
Miss Erskine fidgeted in her seat, gave half smothered exclamations, looked at him appealingly at every misplay. All with no effect. Croyden was wrapped in the game—utterly oblivious to anything but the cards—leading the wrong one, throwing the wrong one, matching pasteboards, that was all.
Miss Erskine was frantic. And when, at the last, holding only a thirteener and a fork in Clubs, he led the losing card of the latter, she could endure the agony no longer.
“That is five tricks you have lost, Mr. Croyden, to say nothing of the rubber!” she snapped. “I must go, now—a delightful game! thank you, my dear Davila. So much obliged to you all, don’t you know. Ah, Captain Carrington, will you see me as far as the front gate?—I won’t disturb the game. Davila can take my place.”
“Yes, I’ll take her to the gate!” muttered the Captain aside to Croyden, who was the very picture of contrition. “But if she only were a man! Are you ready, Amelia?” and he bowed her out.
“You awful man!” cried Miss Carrington. “How could you do it!”