"Why did that Englishman, Broadfeather, fly off the handle at Bougie? What made him leave there two hours before we did?"
"Why? I thought my mother told you. He drank too much old wine, and it went into his head. We had to stop playing, and I think he must have been ashamed for my mother to see him again."
"What did he say when you stopped playing, Hyacinthe?"
"It was nothing," the boy said; but a faint colour came into his pale cheeks, and his lower lip was thrust forward slightly, producing an expression a little obstinate and a little scornful. "I did suppose my mother told you. He thought himself a great bridge player; and both at Bougie and at Michelet it was he who asked to play with us. At Bougie he had too much Beaune, and he was too confused to understand how he could be outmatched both evenings;—he said I counted wrong. How silly! As if I would do such a thing when there was no need! He is a third-class player; perhaps a fourth-class." Hyacinthe's colour heightened, and he reverted to something he had just said. "When I say I would never do such a thing when I am in a game with a fourth-class player, it isn't the same as to say I would ever do it."
