The impersonality of Dummy furnished a topic to tide over the assimilation of things, and help the social _fengshui_ to plausibility. There was a fillah--said Mr. Pellew--at the Club, who wouldn't take Dummy unless that fiction was accommodated with a real chair. And there was another fillah who couldn't play unless the vacant chair was taken away. Something had happened to this fillah when he was a boy, and anything like a ghost was uncongenial to him. You shouldn't lock up children in the dark or make grimaces at them if you wanted them not to be nervous in after-life ... and so forth. Gwen was a bad whist-player, sometimes taking a very perverted view of the game. As, for instance, when, after Mr. Pellew had dealt, she asked her partner how many trumps she held. "Because, Clo," said she, "I've only got two, and unless you've got at least four, I don't see the use of going on." Public opinion condemned this attitude as unsportsmanlike, and demanded another deal. Gwen welcomed the suggestion, having only a Knave and a Queen in all the rest of her hand. Her partner expressed disgust. "I think," she said, "you might have held your tongue, Gwen, and played it out. But I shan't tell you why." "Oh, I know, of course, without your telling me. You're made of trumps. I'm so sorry, dear! There--see!--I've led." She played Knave. "This," said Mr. Pellew, with shocked gravity, "is not whist." "Well," said Gwen, "I can _not_ see why one shouldn't say how many cards one has of any suit. Everyone knows, so it must be fair. Everyone sees Dummy's hand." "I see your point. But it's not whist." "Am I to play, or not?" said Aunt Constance. She looked across at her partner, as a serious player rather amused at the childish behaviour of their opponents. A sympathetic bond was thereby established--solid seriousness against frivolity. "Fire away!" said Gwen. "Second player plays lowest." Miss Dickenson played the Queen. "_That's_ not whist, aunty," said Gwen triumphantly. Her partner played the King. "There now, you see!" said Gwen. She belonged to the class of players who rejoice aloud, or show depression, after success or failure. This time her exultation was premature. Mr. Pellew, without emotion, pushed the turn-up card, a two, into the trick, saying to his partner:--"Your Queen was all right. Quite correct!" The story does not vouch for this. It may have been wrong. "Do you _mean_ to _say_, Cousin Percy"--thus Gwen, with indignant emphasis--"that you've not got a club in your hand, at the very first round. You _cannot_ expect us to believe _that_!" Mr. Pellew pointed out that if he revoked he would lose three tricks. "Very well," said Gwen. "I shall keep a very sharp look out." But no revoke came, and she had to console herself as a loser with the reflection that it was only the odd trick, after all--one by cards and honours divided.