Arrangements for the fox hunt were completed ere they left the table, and afterward they played whist before the drawing-room fire, Margaret and John against Phillip and Tom Markham. John watched Margaret’s efforts to avoid playing with him with carefully concealed amusement. In the end she defeated her own purpose. “I’m such a frightfully poor player,” she lamented, “it would be a shame to spoil Mr. North’s pleasure by making us partners.” “That’s just it,” cried Phillip. “You are pretty rotten, Margey, but John’s one of the crack members of the Harvard Whist Club, and so that evens it up. Come along, now.” So Margaret accepted the inevitable and took the place opposite John, where he could look into her face every time he raised his eyes from his cards. They had foemen worthy of their trumps. Phillip was a good player, while Markham went in for whist as he went in for everything else, with a concentration and singleness of purpose that was delightful to behold and which made him a formidable antagonist. It is to be feared that Margaret purposely vindicated the reputation she had claimed. Surely, never before were so many good cards wasted, so many aces trumped, such a blind disregard of science and signals exhibited! But if her purpose was to ruffle, her partner’s temper, she won not the slightest vestige of success. John’s tranquillity remained impervious. Phillip wondered and exclaimed: “Good heavens, Margey! What were you up to then? You’re playing fifty times worse than I ever knew you to――and that’s saying a heap!” “Thank you, Phil, dear!” “John will think you were raised in――in――I don’t know what――where!” “I am very sorry,” answered Margaret very gravely, “but I warned Mr. North of what to expect.” “Really, I think your playing is very good, Miss Ryerson,” interposed John, with equal gravity. “For my part, I am quite satisfied. And if you’re satisfied and I’m satisfied, where does Phil come in? Nowhere. Your lead, Mr. Markham.” Now there was a bit of polite perjury that should have won the thanks and admiration of any one in Margaret’s place. Yet, for some reason, the effect on Margaret was quite the reverse of pleasing and did not soften her heart and move her to reform; on the contrary, she played worse than before and exasperated Phillip to fresh remonstrance. “Margey! You did it again that hand!” “Did what, Phil?” “Why, trumped his ace!” “Did I? Did I trump your ace, Mr. North?” “I believe you did,” John answered calmly. “But I don’t think Phil understands your play.” “No, hanged if I do!” muttered Phillip. “While I do――perfectly.” Margaret frowned suspiciously and had the grace to blush. And John saw the blush and thought it lovely and played a card that caused Tom Markham’s hands to tremble with triumph. Yet, despite all handicaps――not the least of which was his inability to keep his eyes on the game――John won out at the end, and Markham drew his long length carefully from his chair and sighed enviously.