"It's too bad," she ventured, looking around at Edgerton, whose entire hand was being minutely counted by Mrs. Lorrimore.
"I don't mind!" said the young fellow, laughing; and he leaned a trifle nearer and added under his breath: "But suppose I had played for stakes!"
Into her timid and faded eyes came the ghost of a glimmer—the momentary sparkle of fun, and went out very quickly.
But it had been there for a second; and thereafter Edgerton found a curious pleasure in making it come back at intervals. She even laughed—even ventured to provoke his laughter—rather scared at trying until his quick mirth set her at momentary ease again.
Luck bedeviled his honor; the fair Mrs. Lorrimore won steadily without the least respect for the law and no consideration at all for the sanctity of the bench; and the judge became peevish. He was a very rich man.
Presently he had enough of it—letters to write for the morning mail—and got himself out and upstairs with the dignity of a fly-pestered ox.
"Horrid old screw," observed Mrs. Lorrimore in Edgerton's ear, and laughed her peculiarly sweet and captivating laugh as a servant returned with his honor's check in an angrily scrawled envelope.
Mrs. Rivett had passed into a farther room, where the high gilded pipes of an organ glimmered in the subdued light. Edgerton saw her seated there—a thin, bejeweled little figure beneath the tall gothic majesty of the pipes.
After a while the low harmony of an old-time hymn stole into the card room.
Those at the bridge tables remained silent and absorbed, except Mr. Rivett, who cautiously turned his sphinxlike countenance toward the farther dusk where his wife was seated.