"You'll have to play with me," said Wright. "I understand all your signals, Mercedes!" "But you don't profit by them," she answered, as we came within sight of the house. I played a wretched game that evening. I couldn't keep my mind on the cards. It was off--back at the Country Club again, listening to a poet talk of poets: it was wondering a little about the "Denton Free Clinic": and, in consequence, I revoked twice, to the extreme amusement of our opponents. "Haven't come to the point where you swear at your wife at the bridge-table, have you Bill?" asked Wright, as he carefully took the penalty. "No," replied my husband, "that's a form of indoor sport I could never quite understand. It doesn't seem fair--for she couldn't swear back." "Oh, couldn't I?" said I with ardour. "I shan't give you the opportunity," he answered. "And now, if you please, one no trump." The game broke up rather early. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Wright and Mercedes, with the excuse that they were keenly interested in astronomy, walked out on the verandah. I told them good-night. "You'll stay to chaperone the Irresponsibles?" I asked my husband. "Gladly," he said, "and discreetly--from a distance." There was something so comfortable and lovable about him that night that I suddenly wanted to tell him I was sorry that we had quarrelled, sorry that the barrier had arisen between us. But I couldn't. In one way, however, I might make amends. I said, "I've grown awfully fond of Mercedes. I hope she will come North sometime--for the summer, perhaps. I think I misjudged her cruelly for a while." The steel-blue eyes grew warm. "She's a very nice child," said Bill, "and I knew you'd find it out before long. You didn't give her a chance at first. But I'm glad you like her, Mavis, for you can do her a lot of good." "How?" I asked curiously. "Well, for one thing, you're pretty well balanced--most of the time. And for another, you have had the advantage of a unique and splendid upbringing. And for another, you are--unless given certain circumstances--most uncommonly sweet." He said it in a very matter-of-fact tone: and looked at his watch as he spoke--not at me. I was absurdly embarrassed. "Are--are you a 'certain circumstance'?" I asked daringly, and escaped to my room before he could answer. I heard him start to follow me, but apparently he thought better of it. But long after I was in bed, I heard a foot-fall under my windows, the smell of a pipe drifted in through the flower-scent, and the sound of a baritone voice singing softly, "Who is Sylvia--who is she--?" "Is she kind as she is fair--?" I lay for some time, listening, and finally, as the footsteps turned away and the song grew fainter, I laid my hot cheek to the pillow and slept, dreamlessly, until morning.