“Yet whist is a restful game in itself,” said Bradford, cheerfully; “an evening of whist, with even fairly intelligent partners, I’ve always found a great smoother-out of nerves and wrinkles.”

“They do not play it that way here,” answered Sylvia, laughing, in spite of herself, at his quiet assumption.  “It’s ‘bridge’ for money or expensive prizes; and compared to the excitement it causes, the tarantella is a sitting-down dance.  I’m too stupid with cards to take the risk of playing; even mamma does not advise it yet, though she wishes to have me coached.  So I shall have some time to myself after all, for my defect puts me out of three Lenten card clubs to which mamma belongs, two of which meet at our house.  That leaves only two sewing classes, three Lenten theatre clubs (one for lunch and matinee and two for dinner and the evening), and Mr. Bell’s cake-walk club, that practises with a teacher at our house on Monday evenings.  The club is to have a semi-public performance at the Waldorf for charity, in Easter week, and as the tickets are to be ten dollars each, they expect to make a great deal of money.  So you see there is very little time allowed us to sit down and look at ourselves.”

“I cannot excuse cake-walking off the stage, among civilized people,” interpolated Miss Lavinia, catching the word but not the connection, and realizing that, as hostess, she had inconsiderately lost the thread of the conversation.  “It appeals to me as the expression of physical exuberance of a lower race, and for people of our grade of intelligence to imitate it is certainly lowering!  The more successfully it is carried out the worse it is!”

Miss Lavinia spoke so fiercely that everybody laughed but Sylvia, who coloured painfully, and Horace Bradford deftly changed the subject in the lull that followed.

* * * * *

The men did not care to be left alone with their cigars and coffee, so we lingered in the dining-room.  Suddenly a shrieking whistle sounded in the street, and the rapid clatter of hoofs made us listen, while Evan rushed to the door, seizing his hat on the way.

“Only the fire engines,” said Miss Lavinia; “you would soon be used to them if you lived here; the engine house is almost around the corner.”

“Don’t you ever go after them?” I asked, without thinking, because to Evan and me going to fires is one of the standard attractions of our New York.

“Barbara, child, don’t be absurd.  What should I do traipsing after an engine?”

“Yet a good fire is a very exciting spectacle.  I once had the habit of going,” said Martin Cortright, emerging from a cloud of cigar smoke.  “I remember when Barnum’s Museum was burned my father and I ran to the fire together and stayed out, practically, all night.”

More whistling and a fresh galloping of hoofs indicated that there was a second call, and the engines from up town were answering.  I began to tap my feet restlessly, and Miss Lavinia noticed it.