her hand. “Nothing above a nine spot!” she declared, throwing them, backs up, on the table.
“Too bad!” murmured Miss Frayne, carelessly picking up the hand. “Why, you didn’t look closely! Here’s an ace and two queens and – ”
“They’re nothing! How dare you dispute my word? I say the hand is worthless!” She fairly snatched the cards from the girl and turned them face down again.
“But mad’moiselle,” began the Count, “if you have an ace and two queens, I could have played a no-trump hand grand, – ah, splendid!”
“Yes, you could have played it! You want to play all the open hands! You want me to sit here a dummy, a figure-head, every time!”
“Now, now, Lady Lucy – ” and Anita Frayne laughed pleasantly.
“Be quiet! You’re worse yet! You want to deal me good hands to humor me! I believe you would cheat to do it! I don’t want good cards that way!”
“Ah,” begged the Count, seeing Anita flush, “do not tell the young lady she cheats! Do not do that!”
“I’ll tell her what I choose! Gray, say something! You sit there like a mummy, while these people are insulting me right and left! Tell Anita that I am right in not wishing her to deal me good cards purposely.”
“But she didn’t,” declared Haviland; “you know she didn’t. Why, she couldn’t, even if she wanted to!”
“Oh, yes, she could!” and Miss Carrington gave a disagreeable sneer. “She’s quite clever enough for any deceit or treachery.”
“Stop, Cousin Lucy! I can’t let you talk so about Miss Frayne in my presence!”
“Oh, you can’t, can’t you? And, pray, what right have you to defend her? Go away, both of you! I’ll play with you no longer. Go away and send Pauline and Mr. Illsley in here. They, at least, will play fair.”
Anita Frayne rose without a word. Haviland rose too, but talking volubly. “Let up, Cousin Lucy,” he said sternly. “You’ve no right to treat Miss Frayne so. You ought to apologize to her for such rudeness.”
“Apologize!” Miss Carrington fairly shrieked; “she’ll do the apologizing, and you, too, my foolish young cousin. You little know what’s going to happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another song!”
Haviland looked at her in astonishment; the Count, thoughtfully. The same idea was in both their minds. Could she mean that she was expecting the Count to propose to her that evening?
“Nothing nice can happen to you unless you learn to control that temper of yours,” and Haviland swung away after Anita.
He found her in the next room, nestled in the corner of a big davenport, weeping into a sympathetic sofa-cushion.
“Go and find the others,” she whispered, as he came near her. “Make them go and play with her!”
Obediently, Haviland went. In the glassed sun-parlor he found Pauline Stuart, Miss Carrington’s niece, and Stephen Illsley, one of the most favored of Pauline’s many suitors.
“For goodness’ sake, people,” he began, “do go and play bridge with the Lady of the Manor! She’s in a peach of a fury, and you’ll have to take your life in your hands, but go!”
“I won’t,” said Pauline, bluntly; “It’s Anita’s turn to-night. She said she’d do it.”
“She did! But she came off second best, and she’s weeping buckets on the best Empire embroidery sofa-cushions! I’m going to comfort her, but you must go and keep the gentle Lucy from pulling the house down about our ears! She’s sure queering herself with his nibs! He can’t admire her sweet, flower-like soul after this night’s exhibition.”
“I don’t want to go a bit, but I suppose we’ll have to,” and Pauline smiled at her guest.
“Oh, go on,” said Haviland, as he turned to leave them; “and, for Heaven’s sake, give her all the good cards. Can you manage that, Illsley?”
“I am afraid not. Her eyes are too sharp.”
“Well, if her luck stays bad, get her to play mumble-peg or something, instead of bridge.”
Haviland disappeared and Pauline rose unwillingly. “I do so hate to play with Aunt Lucy,” she said, “but it must be done. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself?”
“For you? Always!” And the two went to the cardroom.
Pauline Stuart, tall, dark, graceful, was a striking-looking girl. Only twenty-four, she carried herself with the dignity and poise of a duchess, and her heavy, dark brows gave her face an expression of strength and will-power that contrasted forcibly with the delicate Dresden china beauty of Anita Frayne. The two girls were not especially friendly, though never definitely at odds. Anita was envious of the more fortunate Pauline. The latter, Miss Carrington’s niece, would inherit a goodly part of her aunt’s large fortune, while the humble position of the secretary commanded only a liberal, not munificent, salary.
The girls, however, were at one in their dread of Miss Lucy’s ebullitions of temper and their resentment of the biting sarcasms and angry diatribes she flung at them in her frequent spasms of fury.
Illsley, a well-set-up chap of good address, followed Pauline into her aunt’s presence.
“You waited long enough,” grumbled Miss Carrington. “Sit down. It’s your deal now, Pauline.”
Matters went well for a time. Miss Lucy held good cards, and once or twice she triumphed through a mistake of her adversaries, which she fortunately did not discover was made on purpose.
Count Charlier’s little bright black eyes darted inquiringly from aunt to niece, but he made no comment. All four played well, and when at last Miss Carrington made a grand slam her joy was effervescent.
“Good play,” she flattered herself. “You must admit, Count, that it was clever of me to take that difficult finesse just at that critical point.”
“Clever indeed, mademoiselle. You have the analytical mind; you should have been a diplomat. Also, Fortune favors you. You are beloved of the fickle goddess.”
“Let us hope so,” and for a moment Miss Carrington looked grave.
And then, with the perversity of that same goddess, the card luck changed. Pauline and Illsley held all the high cards, Miss Lucy and the Count only the low ones.
Storm signals showed. Whiter grew the stern, set face; tighter drew the thin, wide lips; and rigid muscles set themselves in the angry, swelling throat. Then, as she scanned a hand of cards, all below the ten, again they went in a shower across the room, and she cried, angrily: “A Yarborough!” reverting to the old-fashioned term.
“Never mind, Aunt Lucy,” and Pauline tried to laugh it off; “this is not your lucky night. Let’s give up bridge for to-night. Let’s have some music.”
“Yes! because you love music and hate bridge! It makes no difference what I want. My wishes are never considered. You and Anita are just alike! Selfish, ungrateful, caring for nothing but your own pleasure. Mr. Illsley, don’t you think young girls should pay some slight attention to the wishes
