Frank’s eyes had fallen to his lap.  “How do you do?” he murmured.  The sound of his voice, low and trembling, full of pain, was like the sound of some old funeral bell to Sylvia; it sent the blood leaping in torrents to her forehead.  Oh, horrible, horrible!

For a moment her eyes fell like his, and she shuddered, and was beaten.  But there was the roomful of people, watching; there was Mrs. Armistead, there were the Witherspoon women gloating.  She forced a tortured smile to her lips, and asked, “What are we playing?”

“Oh, didn’t you know that?” said Julia.  “Progressive whist.”

“Thank-you,” said Sylvia.  “When do we begin?” And she looked about—­anywhere but at Frank Shirley, with his face grown so old in four years.

No one said anything, no one made a move.  Was everybody in the room conspiring to break her down?  “I thought we were late,” she said, desperately; and then, with another effort—­“Shall I cut?” she asked, of Julia.

“If you please,” said the girl; but she did not make a motion to pass the cards.  Her manner seemed to say, You may cut all night, but it won’t help you to rob me of this satisfaction.

Sylvia made a still more determined effort.  If the game was to be postponed indefinitely, so that people might watch her and Frank—­well, she would have to find something to talk about.

“It is a surprise to see you again, Frank Shirley!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said.  His voice was a mumble, and he did not lift his eyes.

“You have been in the West, I understand?”

“Yes,” again; but still he did not lift his eyes.

Sylvia managed to lift hers as far as his cravat; and she saw in it an old piece of imitation jewelry which she had picked up once on the street, and had handed to him in jest.  He had worn it all these years!  He had not thrown it away—­not even when she had thrown him away!

Again came a surge of emotion; and out of the mist she looked about her and saw the faces of tormenting demons, leering.  “Well,” she demanded, “are we going to play?”

“We were waiting for you to cut,” said Julia, graciously; and Sylvia’s fury helped to restore her self-posession.  She cut the cards; and fate was kind, sparing both her and Frank the task of dealing.

But then a new difficulty arose.  Julia dealt, and thirteen cards lay in front of Frank Shirley; but he did not seem to know that he ought to pick them up.  And when the opposing lady called him to time, in what seemed an unnecessarily penetrating voice, he found that he was physically unable to get the cards from the table.  And when with his fumbling efforts he got them into a bunch, he could not straighten them out—­to say nothing of the labour of sorting them according to suit, which all whist-players know to be an indispensable preliminary to the game.  When the opposing lady prodded him again, Frank’s face changed from vivid scarlet to a dark and alarming purple.