It was evident that this could not go on. Sylvia might be equal to the emergency, but Frank was not. He was too much of a human being and too little of a social automaton. Something must be done.
“Don’t they play whist out West, Mr. Shirley,” asked Julia, still smiling benevolently.
And Sylvia lowered her cards. “Surely, my dear, you must understand,” she said, gently. “Mr. Shirley is too much embarrassed to think about cards.”
“Oh!” said the other, taken aback. (L’audace, touljours l’audace! runs the formula!)
“You see,” continued Sylvia, “this is the first time that Frank has seen me in more than three years. And when two people have been as much in love as he and I were, they are naturally disturbed when they meet, and cannot put their minds upon a game of cards.”
Julia was speechless. And Sylvia let her glance wander casually about the room. She saw her hostess and her daughters standing watching; and near the wall at the other side of the room stood the head-devil, who had planned this torment.
“Mrs. Armistead,” Sylvia called, “aren’t you going to play to-night?” Of course everybody in the room heard this; and after it, anyone could have heard a pin drop.
“I’m to keep score,” said Mrs. Armistead.
“But it doesn’t need four to keep score,” objected Sylvia—and looked at the three Witherspoon ladies.
“Dolly and Emma are staying out,” said Mrs. Witherspoon. “Two of our guests did not come.”