“Does Mr. Avesham play whist well?” asked Phœbe. Now if the Colonel was proud of anything it was of his reputation as a whist-player. He was known to play for “points,” a term vague to the Miss Cliffords, but with an undefined air of extravagance and recklessness about it. And though Arthur had never at present had the privilege of playing with the Colonel, the latter answered without a pause. “A good, sound game,” he said. “Perhaps he does not know the subtleties of the thing as well as--as well as some old stagers at it, but with an hour or two of Cavendish a day, which I am not ashamed myself to spend on it, he will develop into a fine player. Wonderful man, Cavendish. Whist is not a game, it is an institution, a national institution.” And the Colonel’s chest became gigantic. “The work of a lifetime,” he went on. “To know whist is the work of a lifetime, and a lifetime not ill-spent. Put it on my tombstone, Constance. I shall not be ashamed of having it on my tombstone, ‘He played a good hand,’ or, let us be more modest, ‘He played a fair hand.’ And now we must tear ourselves away; we must really tear ourselves away. My old cronies will be waiting for me at the club and wondering where I am.” “Colonel Raymond is very fond of his whist,” said his wife, as if this was a fact new to every one. It was the custom at Villa Montrose to show the departing guests as far as the front door, not because there was any fear of their appropriating some small articles on their way out, but with the idea of speeding them, and as soon as the door was closed Phœbe and Clara hurried back to the drawing-room. “Well, it’s the most exciting thing I ever heard,” said Clara, “and how clever of you to have guessed it, Phœbe. I should never have thought of it.” “Anyhow we can make our minds quite easy about sending the picture to the exhibition,” said Phœbe. “I suppose Miss Avesham told the Colonel about it this afternoon. We must be sure to mention it to no one, Clara. It is only to be known in the family at present. Dear me, the Honourable Jeannie Avesham to Mr. John Collingwood! Does he become Honourable, too? I rather think he does.” “There has not been a wedding in Wroxton for years,” said Miss Clara, “at least not in our circle. I wonder what Mrs. Collingwood will say to it. The Colonel said the Collingwoods would become a county family. How I shall long to see the ‘County families’ for next year.” “It would make a pretty subject for a poem next time you are in the mood,” said Phœbe, “the artist painting his love.” “I had thought of that,” said Clara, with conscious pride. “It will be difficult, but I shall try.” “I should recommend the sonnet form,” said Phœbe, as if she was choosing a wallpaper. Clara considered a moment. “I saw it as a lyric,” she said, “with a little refrain like some of Miss Rossetti’s. ‘Jeannie, my Jeannie,’ would be a pretty line.”