When she got a chance, she escaped from the dancing-room to the card-room. There, in a cloud of smoke, she found Whiston playing cribbage. Radiant, roused, animated, she came up to him and greeted him. She was too strong, too vibrant a note in the quiet room. He lifted his head, and a frown knitted his gloomy forehead.
“Are you playing cribbage? Is it exciting? How are you getting on?” she chattered.
He looked at her. None of these questions needed answering, and he did not feel in touch with her. She turned to the cribbage-board.
“Are you white or red?” she asked.
“He’s red,” replied the partner.
“Then you’re losing,” she said, still to Whiston. And she lifted the red peg from the board. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—— Right up there you ought to jump——”
“Now put it back in its right place,” said Whiston.
“Where was it?” she asked gaily, knowing her transgression. He took the little red peg away from her and stuck it in its hole.
The cards were shuffled.
“What a shame you’re losing!” said Elsie.
“You’d better cut for him,” said the partner.
She did so, hastily. The cards were dealt. She put her hand on his shoulder, looking at his cards.
“It’s good,” she cried, “isn’t it?”
He did not answer, but threw down two cards. It moved him more strongly than was comfortable, to have her hand on his shoulder, her curls dangling
