“So you did, ma chère amie,” said the count, “and I quite forgot it, or I should have played my king; but I thought monsieur had the ace, and would have come down on me with it.”
“You thought, forsooth! What business had you to think at all? You know the rule—third in hand; you should have stuck to the rule and taken the consequences.”
“Ma chère amie, you sometimes remind me that it is part of genius to know when to break rules.”
“Don’t throw my words in my face, count. And don’t argue with me about whist. I have been playing whist with you these thirty years, and everybody knows I am a better player than you!”
“Shall I bring you some tea now?” said Pearl, advancing to the whist-table and cutting short the little discussion between the count and Capt. Jack.
“I shall be most thankful for a cup, my dear,” said that lady in an aggrieved tone; “but not strong. I can’t have my night’s rest spoiled for anybody. Jack, you know how I like my tea; just go and get me a cup, if it’s not too much trouble.”
The obedient Jack flew to obey.
The large room was now very full; there were a few groups of splendid ladies in diamonds and shining silks and a great many gentlemen in uniform that gave quite a brilliant air to the unceremonious gathering. Polly Redacre was a picture to look at as she moved about in her white muslin, her bright gold hair shining more effectively than any coronet of jewels, and her cheeks flushed with pleasurable excitement to the brightest rose tint. She knew she was by far the loveliest object in the room, and she took great pleasure in the thought. And who shall blame her? Pearl certainly did not. Indeed, Pearl had a great deal to answer for in the way she ministered to her sister’s vanity; for she was ten times as vain of Polly’s beauty as Polly herself was. Col. Redacre was talking very loudly, while his right hand expostulated with Balaklava, his wooden leg, so called in memory of the field where he lost the original. Every change in the weather affected Balaklava painfully; for the colonel declared that his wooden limb had more sensibility in it than all the rest of his body combined. To-night the sudden frost that had set in was shooting fifty razors a minute in and out of it. He was confiding this detail to M. de Kerbec’s sympathizing ear in his very loudest tones when a voice called out:
“Jack, is this tea sweetened?”
“Certainly, ma chère amie; that is—I really don’t know, now I remember. Mlle. Pearl prepared it, and I have no doubt it is well sweetened.”