However, with the guests, the game soon became all absorbing. Of course "Bridge" players of the "Mediocre Social Set" are not for a moment considered gamblers. The prizes are simply the token of good-will from the hostess to her guests. But considering this truth, it was wonderfully interesting to note the zest and feverish excitement with which these ladies played for two long hours. After each game, five minutes' relaxation took place, in which precious moments, the ladies sauntered up to the refreshment table and renewed their energy for the next onslaught. While munching various sweet nothings, they exchanged light appropriate gossip, and learned the minor details concerning friend or foe, as only a "Bridge" could reveal. At last the final game was to be played. All became still as death, and every eye watched the play of each card with feverish excitement. For many, this last game meant the decision for a prize in their favor. O no! these ladies were not gamblers! They were there for the social gathering—the game was a mere pastime! But how interesting would be a "Bridge" party without prizes? Have you ever tried it, hostess? Would you have the courage? In the same breath that you assure me, "My friends are not gamblers," I hear you say, "But a bridge without prizes would fall so flat!"
When the guests were all departed, Mrs. Lambert dressed for dinner in a rather petulant mood. Her afternoon was decidedly a failure. The main object of the entertainment was to introduce Miss Esterbrook to her own circle, and to feel the honor of the introduction belonged to herself. After all her anticipations, her friends showed plainly their decided indifference to Edith.
Mr. Lambert's non-appearance at the dinner-hour added to her ruffled mood.
For one hour she awaited him in her boudoir. During that time, she gave herself up to thoughts now irritating, now pensive. While waiting, she lolled in a nest of cushions. She looked very alluring in her soft, cream-colored gown, and even the little frown, flitting with her thoughts, did not lessen the charm of her childish beauty.
Edith's words came persistently to her mind—"Why don't you choose the happiest, the best?" The words had a disturbing effect. They insinuated that she,—Alma Lambert—was not choosing the happiest and best.
It is strange how our lives often prepare us for a certain phrase to strike home. So the last month had prepared Alma. If she had met Edith two months sooner, scarcely would her question have been noticed. Anyway, it would have been laughed at as eccentric and prudish, and then been forgotten. But the last month had brought a disturbing element into Alma's even existence. Her husband's irritability, so unprecendented in a man of such unbounded good-nature, was a surprisingly new condition to be met with. Often he would come home, tired and haggard, and after the usual fond greeting and caress, he would begin quite unreasonably to talk of money and business depression.
When she declared she did not like to talk or hear about business affairs, he would give some biting reply that made her wince, as if struck by a lash. Before, he had always laughed at her indifference, but he suddenly changed, demanding her interest in all kinds of stupid details.
She couldn't understand this change in him. She didn't try to understand it. But she felt the unpleasantness of the atmosphere, and vague fears of a coming storm shook her habitual complacency.
To night she was more fearful than usual.
An hour after dinner-time, and her husband not home! It had happened many times lately, but never without a telephoned excuse.