“Are you much of a bridge-player?” he inquired apathetically. “I never cared enough for the game to do much good. It’s such a lot of trouble, you know. All this business of struggling for the declaration, and all that. And if one gets keen on it one’s apt to get very keen; and perhaps then one spends a lot of time over it. And one might spend that time in other ways, perhaps better, don’t you think? But perhaps you like it? Some people do.” “Uncle was never a rap of good at it,” Sylvia explained with a faint suspicion of a smile. “So naturally he doesn’t like it. Same as the non-dancing man who can’t dance, you know.” “Now Stenness is a good player,” Ernest went on. “And I can’t think why he finds it amusing. He’s got all the cards docketed in his head, you know, just like a lot of papers in pigeon-holes. That seems to me too much like work—making a toil of pleasure and all that sort of thing. But to-night he won’t be playing. He’s busy in the study with some papers I asked him to look over. And Torrance is practising shots in the billiard room, so he won’t be playing, either. Arthur! Are you going to play?” Arthur looked up crossly from his task. “No!” he snapped. “Can’t you see this affair’s gone out of gear and I’m trying to put it right?” Another shriek from the instrument emphasised his words. Sylvia put her hands over her ears. “Will you be long over it, Arthur?” she demanded. “These howls are terrible.” “Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can?” her brother retorted snappishly. “There’s nothing so aggravating as to have someone standing over one the whole time asking: ‘Will it be all right soon?’ and ‘When do you think you’ll have it in order?’ or ‘D’you know what’s wrong with it?’ I’m doing the best I can with the thing.” Sylvia was evidently used to her brother’s outbreaks of temper. With a slight gesture she reassured Arthur that he would not be interrupted again; and then she turned to getting the bridge-table arranged. She and Wendover were to play Sir Clinton and Vera Forrest. “I don’t care much for this room at this time of the evening,” she said, as she took the cards from their box. “The window’s almost level with the ground, and that bank of rhododendrons is so close that it blocks the best part of the view.” “Not much view left at this time of night, Miss Hawkhurst,” Wendover said, glancing out. “The dusk’s so deep that one can hardly see anything in it now.” Ernest who had been shuffling about the room in an aimless fashion for a few moments suddenly uttered a complaint. “It’s very stuffy in here. Don’t you find it so, Sir Clinton? And you, Miss Forrest? It’s a rather hot night. Very close. I do like fresh air; they sometimes laugh at me and call me a fresh air fiend, you know; but I do like a breath of fresh air. Anybody object to the window being opened a bit from the bottom? Let some cooler air in here, then.” Sylvia looked up from her game.