“You are delightfully welcome,” Denby cried. “Please come in.”
“We thought you’d still be up,” Nora explained. “Michael said he was bringing you up some highballs.”
“Great stuff,” Monty said, taking his cue, “best whiskey I ever tasted. Nothing like really old Bourbon after all.”
Michael shot a glance of agonized reproach at the man who could make such a stupid mistake. “Monty,” he explained to his wife, who had caught this ingenuous remark and had looked at him inquiringly, “is still so filled with excitement that he doesn’t know old Scotch when he tastes it.”
“Your husband is a noble abstainer,” Denby said quickly, to help them out, “we place temptation right before him and he resists.”
“That’s my wife’s training,” said Harrington, smiling complacently.
“I’m not so sure,” she returned. “Putting temptation before Michael, Mr. Denby, shows him just like old Adam—only Michael’s weakness is for grapes, not apples.”
“We’ve come,” Nora reminded them, “to get a fourth at auction. We’re all too much excited to sleep. Mr. Denby, I’m sure you’re a wonderful player. Surely you must shine at something.”
“Among my other deficiencies,” he confessed, “I don’t play bridge.”
Nora sighed. “There remains only Monty. Monty,” she commanded, “you must play.”