After staring fixedly at the display, her husband put his cards face downwards upon the table and covered his eyes. "I suppose," he said brokenly, "I suppose you had a reason for overbidding me. I confess I can't see it, but I expect that's because it's too subtle." "What d'you mean?" was the indignant reply. "Look at those"--and Betty pointed proudly to a queen-high flush of six diamonds. "But you called hearts!" Betty started. Then-- "So I did," she said guiltily. "I meant diamonds." "I see," said her husband grimly. "After all, they're both red, aren't they?" Here the laughter which Anne and Anthony had been endeavouring to restrain broke out tempestuously. Betty's procedure and bearing at the Bridge table would have unhinged an enthusiast, but since the four domestics played for amusement and a penny a hundred her short-comings hurt nobody and were highly diverting. With a sorrowful look at his opponents, George proceeded laboriously to amass three tricks. With the game went the rubber, and by mutual consent the party broke up. It was half-past nine, and all had duties to do. Anne went singing to fill Mrs. Bumble's hot-water bottle, and Betty to heat the milk which it was her mistress's practice to consume at bed-time. Mr. Bumble, as became his sex, favoured something more substantial, and light refreshment in the shape of a ham sandwich and a bottle of beer before retiring suited him admirably. In Anthony he had a conscientious victualler. The sandwich was invariably fresh, the bottle of beer untasted, the glass clean. Mr. Bumble had marked these qualities and hugged himself. This night, when Anthony entered the dressing-room, his master was sitting coatless upon a chair. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Lyveden, "I hope you've not been waiting." "No, no," was the cheery reply. "Not your fault, me boy. I'm early. There now! Maria!" Mrs. Bumble appeared in her doorway in a red dressing-gown. "Look at that there tray, me dear. Ain't it a treat?" "Deluscious!" said Mrs. Bumble. "The very look," continued Mr. Bumble, "o' that sanwidge makes me that 'ungry you wouldden believe." "May I cut you another one, sir?" said Anthony. "'Ark at the boy," said his employer. "Wants ter kill me with kindness. Why, I could eat sixty, I could. But one's too many, reelly, at my time o' life." "Joo drink beer, Tony?" inquired Mrs. Bumble. "Yes, madam." "Then go an' 'ave a nice bottle," she said, beaming. "Thank you very much, madam." "Yes, an' give George one," said Mr. Bumble, not to be outdone in generosity. "Thank you, sir." "Don't mention it," was the agreeable reply. Anthony bade them "Good night" and left them breathing good-will.