She had stolen up-stairs after dinner for a little respite, but not even a convenient headache furnished a plausible excuse for a continued absence. As she descended, therefore, she heard the continuous ripple of talk, like a shallow but persistent fountain, and knew that Mrs. Billop was still entertaining little Mrs. Van Citters. The two were seated on a sofa inconveniently near the table where their host, Johnstone Astry, was playing bridge with Dr. Macclesfield, young Mrs. Prynne, the new and pretty widow, and Paul Van Citters, who had inherited a Knickerbocker descent that was too long for his short body, and a social responsibility that rested heavily on his comfortable, commonplace soul.
As Rachel entered, her brother-in-law glanced up from his cards, nodding to her with the casual manner of their relationship, while the others remained apparently absorbed in the fact that the stakes were five a point. Mrs. Billop went on giving Mrs. Van Citters classic advice about the latter's sixteen-months' baby, but Rachel, avoiding the eddies of this conversation, went over to the fire. For, although it was spring and the blackberries in blossom, a sudden chill in the night air had made a few logs desirable in the great fireplace. Rachel stood with one foot on the low fender, observing the players, her soft gown enfolding her slender figure as closely as the calyx of a flower; for she had that indefinable gift that is called "style" and, without great beauty, possessed an elusive and subtle charm. She stretched out one slender hand toward the blaze, her face slightly averted, and the shadowed beauty of her gray eyes eclipsed by their own thick-set, dark lashes.
Astry, with his head bent over his cards, was secretly irritated; he knew that the scene diverted Rachel, that her attitude was distinctly that of a spectator, and he played with sudden indifference.
"Diamonds!" said Van Citters disgustedly. "Astry, why the deuce didn't you make it hearts?"
Astry rose. "Rachel, come here and take my hand; Van Citters wants my blood. I never make hearts trumps," he added, with his cool smile; "I'm superstitious."
"Nonsense!" said Van Citters, "we might have got four tricks with our eyes shut. Miss Leven, I'm a beastly player when I'm nervous, and Astry's on my nerves."
"My dear Paul," retorted Astry, "you've no more nerves than a Dutch clock; all you want is winding up and you'll tick till midnight. I'll send in some whiskey and soda. Feel his pulse, Macclesfield."
The old doctor, who was sorting his cards, looked over his spectacles. "Put out your tongue, Paul," he said dryly.
"Is Paul in trouble again?" asked Mrs. Van Citters, suddenly catching the drift of the talk.
"He's lost fifty dollars, Pamela," laughed Astry.