IX
THAT evening Teresa sat watching the bridge-table in Nina's drawing-room. Ernesto had come back from his week in the motor, bland and content with himself, and full of stories and silences about Adela Crayven. At present he and Crayven were playing against the bellicose Vicomte, whose duel somehow had not come off, and his sister, and Ernesto, as always, was excitedly absorbed in the game.
"Contre!" he cried, when "no trumps" had been declared against him, slapping his cards down on the table and folding his arms frenziedly. He played out the hand fiercely, pounding each trick with his fist as he took it in and turned it; lost the odd; and leaned across the table, demanding of his partner with concentrated fury:
"For God's sake, why didn't you lead me a heart!"
"Heart? Heart?" said Crayven vaguely. "I don't think I had one."
"You had! Haven't you just played the king on my ace? You've lost us the game!"
"Very sorry, indeed," murmured Crayven.
"Sorry!" snorted Ernesto, dealing round a fresh pack with desperation.
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