Monty entered the card-room from the garden, nervously stuffing into his pocket the precious package which Denby had thrown to him.
“I hope I haven’t delayed the game,” he apologized.
“We didn’t even miss you,” Nora said acidly.
“Were you supposed to be in on this game?”
“Don’t be cross, Nora,” Alice advised; “you can see his headache has been troubling him. Is it better, Monty?”
“What headache?” he asked. “I haven’t had a headache for months. Oh, yes,” he added, confused, “that neuralgic headache has gone, thanks. Shall we play?”
“Yes, let’s,” Nora said. “Michael dealt before he went to sleep.”
“Wake up, Michael,” his wife said, tapping him with her fan, “you’re not at the opera; you’re playing cards.”
“I haven’t slept for a moment,” he assured her, after a pause in which he got his bearings. “The light was too strong—”
“So you shaded your eyes,” his wife went on. “Well, when they are unshaded will you remember we’re playing?”