“It is a surprise to see you again, Frank Shirley!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was a mumble, and he did not lift his eyes.
“You have been in the West, I understand?”
“Yes,” again; but still he did not lift his eyes.
Sylvia managed to lift hers as far as his cravat; and she saw in it an old piece of imitation jewelry which she had picked up once on the street, and had handed to him in jest. He had worn it all these years! He had not thrown it away—not even when she had thrown him away!
Again came a surge of emotion; and out of the mist she looked about her and saw the faces of tormenting demons, leering. “Well,” she demanded, “are we going to play?”
“We were waiting for you to cut,” said Julia, graciously; and Sylvia’s fury helped to restore her self-posession. She cut the cards; and fate was kind, sparing both her and Frank the task of dealing.
But then a new difficulty arose. Julia dealt, and thirteen cards lay in front of Frank Shirley; but he did not seem to know that he ought to pick them up. And when the opposing lady called him to time, in what seemed an unnecessarily penetrating voice, he found that he was physically unable to get the cards from the table. And when with his fumbling efforts he got them into a bunch, he could not straighten them out—to say nothing of the labour of sorting them according to suit, which all whist-players know to be an indispensable preliminary to the game. When the opposing lady prodded him again, Frank’s face changed from vivid scarlet to a dark and alarming purple.
Miss Julia led the tray of clubs; and Frank, whose turn came next, spilled three cards upon the table, and finally selected from them the king of hearts to play—hearts being trumps. “But you have a club there, Mr. Shirley,” said his opponent; something that was pardonable, inasmuch as the nine of clubs lay face up where he had shoved it aside.
“Oh—I beg pardon,” he stammered, and took back his king, and reached into his hand and pulled out the six of clubs, and a diamond with it.