“If you don’t want to win you’re playing like a bridge article in a Sunday paper,” she returned.
“This game makes me sick,” he said in disgust. “Nothing but reproaches.”
“I wish Mr. Denby were playing instead of poor Michael,” Nora remarked.
“Steve’s got the right idea,” Monty commented. “He’s in bed.”
“Great man, Denby,” said Michael. “He knows you can’t sit up all night unless you drink.”
“We’ll finish the rubber and then stop,” his wife said comfortingly. “Do remember it’s not poker.”
“I wish it were,” he exclaimed dolefully. “No partners—no reproaches—no post-mortems in poker. If you make a fool of yourself you lose your own money and everybody else is glad of it and gets cheerful.”
“After this then, one round of jacks to please Michael,” said Alice.
“And then quit,” Monty suggested. “I’m tired, too.”
“I’m not tired,” Michael asserted. “I’m only thirsty. It takes this form with me. When I’m thirsty—”