Another gasp ran round the group. Hugh had just turned up his hand. And the three, four, five, six, and seven of clubs being a straight flush beats four aces. For a moment Hugh allowed himself the luxury of watching the other’s face. Then he spoke. "I certainly dealt you four aces, my friend; so I took the precaution of dealing myself a straight flush. And that is the reason why I do not play cards. Years of boredom by myself on a plantation made me take up card-conjuring as a hobby. And I did this simple little trick to-night in order to demonstrate to you boys that even a fine card-player like the gentleman opposite may be quite helpless when playing with a stranger. In fact, I could win money off him just as easily as he can win money off you." The persuasive gentleman appeared to be the least pleased member of the group, though the fact that after all he had not lost his money appeased him somewhat. "Anyone, sir," he remarked, a little thickly, "can win money by cheating." "Not anyone," said Hugh, amicably. "But we’ll let that pass. Only I’d win money off you playing perfectly fair. You’re not a good gambler: your finger twitches. Good-night." And he was still smiling as he turned in. *II* With fingers that fumbled over the unaccustomed stiff shirt, Hugh Massingham was dressing for dinner. His first dinner with his wife for four years. It was the moment he had dreamed of through long, sweltering days in Mesopotamia—and now that it had come, he was afraid. Things were different to what he had expected; Delia was different. He could hear her now, moving about in the next room, and her voice as she spoke to her maid. Somehow, he hadn’t expected that maid. He had hoped—well, it didn’t much matter what he’d hoped. Anyway, it was absurd: naturally, his wife would have a maid.