“A hundred aces,” broke in Plank's heavy voice as he played the last trick and picked up the scoring card and pencil.
Sylvia's blue eyes were laughing as Plank cut the new pack. Marion Page coolly laid aside her cigarette, dealt, and made it “without” in the original.
“May I play?” asked Sylvia sweetly.
“Please,” growled Plank.
So Sylvia serenely played from the “top of nothing,” and Grace Ferrall whisked a wonderful dummy across the green; and Plank's thick under lip began to protrude, and he lowered his heavy head like a bull at bay.
Once Marion, over-intent, touched a card in the dummy when she should have played from her own hand; and Sylvia would have let it pass, had not Plank calmly noted the penalty.
“Oh, dear! It's too much like business,” sighed Sylvia. “Can't we play for the sake of the sport? I don't think it good sportsmanship to profit by a blunder.”
“Rule,” observed Marion laconically. “'Ware barbed wire, if you want the brush.”
“I myself never was crazy for the brush,” murmured Sylvia.
Grace whispered maliciously: “But you've got it, with the mask and pads,” and her mischievous head barely tipped backward in the direction of Quarrier.