“I’ve been out of town,” Montague protested.
“Well, come to dinner to-morrow night,” said Mrs. Winnie. “There’ll be some bridge fiends.”
“You forget I haven’t learned to play,” he objected.
“Well, come anyhow,” she replied. “We’ll teach you. I’m no player myself, and my husband will be there, and he’s good-natured; and my brother Dan—he’ll have to be whether he likes it or not.”
So Montague visited the Snow Palace again, and met Winton Duval, the banker,—a tall, military-looking man of about fifty, with a big grey moustache, and bushy eyebrows, and the head of a lion. His was one of the city’s biggest banking-houses, and in alliance with powerful interests in the Street. At present he was going in for mines in Mexico and South America, and so he was very seldom at home. He was a man of most rigid habits—he would come back unexpectedly after a month’s trip, and expect to find everything ready for him, both at home and in his office, as if he had just stepped round the corner. Montague observed that he took his menu-card and jotted down his comments upon each dish, and then sent it down to the chef. Other people’s dinners he very seldom attended, and when his wife gave her entertainments, he invariably dined at the club.
He pleaded a business engagement for the evening; and as brother Dan did not appear, Montague did not learn any bridge. The other four guests settled down to the game, and Montague and Mrs. Winnie sat and chatted, basking before the fireplace in the great entrance-hall.
“Have you seen Charlie Carter?” was the first question she asked him.
“Not lately,” he answered; “I met him at Harvey’s.”
“I know that,” said she. “They tell me he got drunk.”
“I’m afraid he did,” said Montague.