“He’s kept us twenty minutes,” Nora returned crossly. “I saw him go out in the garden. He said it was to relieve his headache, but I really believe he wanted to capture the gang single-handed. Wouldn’t it be thrilling if he did?” “A little improbable,” Alice laughed; “but still men do the oddest things sometimes. I never thought Michael the fighting kind till he knocked a man down once for kissing his hand to me.” “It was fine of Michael,” Nora said. “The man deserved it.” “I know, dear,” her hostess said, “but, as it happens, the man was kissing his hand to his infant son six months old in an upper window. It cost Michael fifty dollars, but I loved him all the more for it. Look at the dear old thing slumbering peacefully and imagining I think he’s keeping this very gentle light from his eyes.” “It’s the two highballs he had in Mr. Denby’s room,” the sapient ingénue explained. She harked back to Monty. “I wish he were as brave about proposing. I’ve tried my grandmother’s recipes for shy men, and all my mother ever knew, I know. And yet he does get so flustered when he tries, that he scares himself away.” Alice nodded. “He’s the kind you’ve got to lead to the altar. I had trouble with Michael. He imagined himself too hopelessly old, and very nearly married quite an elderly female. He’d have been dead now if he had. Here’s your prey coming in now.” Monty entered the card-room from the garden, nervously stuffing into his pocket the precious package which Denby had thrown to him. “I hope I haven’t delayed the game,” he apologized. “We didn’t even miss you,” Nora said acidly. “Were you supposed to be in on this game?” “Don’t be cross, Nora,” Alice advised; “you can see his headache has been troubling him. Is it better, Monty?” “What headache?” he asked. “I haven’t had a headache for months. Oh, yes,” he added, confused, “that neuralgic headache has gone, thanks. Shall we play?” “Yes, let’s,” Nora said. “Michael dealt before he went to sleep.” “Wake up, Michael,” his wife said, tapping him with her fan, “you’re not at the opera; you’re playing cards.” “I haven’t slept for a moment,” he assured her, after a pause in which he got his bearings. “The light was too strong--” “So you shaded your eyes,” his wife went on. “Well, when they are unshaded will you remember we’re playing?” “Who opened it?” he demanded with a great effort. “Bridge, my dear,” Alice reminded him, “not poker--bridge, auction bridge.” She paused a moment while the clock struck three. “And it’s three o’clock, and it’s quite time you began.” “One no trump,” Nora said, after looking at her hand cheerfully. “It isn’t your bid,” Alice corrected her, “although I don’t wonder you forgot. It’s Michael’s; he dealt.” Michael tried to concentrate his gaze on his hand. There seemed to be an enormous number of cards, and he needed time to consider the phenomenon. “What’d the dealer draw?” he asked. “But we’re not playing poker,” Alice said.