A LITTLE ROUND GAME OF CARDS
Sylvia sat down in a chair and waited. She waited
impatiently, for she knew that she had almost reached
the limits of her self-command, and needed the presence
of others to keep her from breaking down. But
her native courage came to her aid, and in half an
hour she heard the steps of her father and his guests
in the passage. She noticed that her father looked
anxiously toward her as he came in.
“Do you mind if we bring in our cigars?”
he asked.
“Not at all,” said she; and he came in,
carrying in his hand a box of cigars, which he placed
in the middle of the table. Wallie Hine at once
stumbled across the room to Sylvia; he walked unsteadily,
his features were more flushed than before. She
shrank a little from him. But he had not the
time to sit down beside her, for Captain Barstow exclaimed
jovially:
“I say, Garratt, I have an idea. There
are five of us here. Let us have a little round
game of cards.”
Sylvia started. In her heart she knew that just
some such proposal as this she had been dreading all
the evening. Her sinking hopes died away altogether.
This poor witless youth, plied with champagne; the
older men who flattered him with lies; the suggestion
of champagne made as though it were a sudden inspiration,
and the six bottles standing ready in the cupboard;
and now the suggestion of a little round game of cards
made in just the same tone! Sylvia had a feeling
of horror. She had kept herself unspotted from
her world, but not through ignorance. She knew
it. She knew those little round games of cards
and what came of them, sometimes merely misery and
ruin, sometimes a pistol shot in the early morning.
She turned very pale, but she managed to say:
“Thank you. I don’t play cards.”
And then she heard a sudden movement by her father,
who at the moment when Barstow spoke had been lighting
a fresh cigar. She looked up. Garratt Skinner
was staring in astonishment at Captain Barstow.
“Cards!” he cried. “In my house?
On a Sunday evening?”
With each question his amazement grew, and he ended
in a tone of remonstrance.
“Come, Barstow, you know me too well to propose
that. I am rather hurt. A friendly talk,
and a smoke, yes. Perhaps a small whisky and soda.
I don’t say no. But cards on a Sunday evening!
No indeed.”
“Oh, I say, Skinner,” objected Wallie
Hine. “There’s no harm in a little
game.”
Garratt Skinner shook his head at Hine in a grave
friendly way.
“Better leave cards alone, Wallie, always.
You are young, you know.”
Hine flushed.
“I am old enough to hold my own against any
man,” he cried, hotly. He felt that Garratt
Skinner had humiliated him, and before this wonderful
daughter of his in whose good favors Mr. Hine had been
making such inroads during supper. Barstow apologized
for his suggestion at once, but Hine was now quite
unwilling that he should withdraw it.
