Miss Julia led the tray of clubs; and Frank, whose turn came next, spilled three cards upon the table, and finally selected from them the king of hearts to play—­hearts being trumps.  “But you have a club there, Mr. Shirley,” said his opponent; something that was pardonable, inasmuch as the nine of clubs lay face up where he had shoved it aside.

“Oh—­I beg pardon,” he stammered, and took back his king, and reached into his hand and pulled out the six of clubs, and a diamond with it.

It was evident that this could not go on.  Sylvia might be equal to the emergency, but Frank was not.  He was too much of a human being and too little of a social automaton.  Something must be done.

“Don’t they play whist out West, Mr. Shirley,” asked Julia, still smiling benevolently.

And Sylvia lowered her cards.  “Surely, my dear, you must understand,” she said, gently.  “Mr. Shirley is too much embarrassed to think about cards.”

“Oh!” said the other, taken aback. (L’audace, touljours l’audace! runs the formula!)

“You see,” continued Sylvia, “this is the first time that Frank has seen me in more than three years.  And when two people have been as much in love as he and I were, they are naturally disturbed when they meet, and cannot put their minds upon a game of cards.”

Julia was speechless.  And Sylvia let her glance wander casually about the room.  She saw her hostess and her daughters standing watching; and near the wall at the other side of the room stood the head-devil, who had planned this torment.

“Mrs. Armistead,” Sylvia called, “aren’t you going to play to-night?” Of course everybody in the room heard this; and after it, anyone could have heard a pin drop.

“I’m to keep score,” said Mrs. Armistead.

“But it doesn’t need four to keep score,” objected Sylvia—­and looked at the three Witherspoon ladies.

“Dolly and Emma are staying out,” said Mrs. Witherspoon.  “Two of our guests did not come.”

“Well,” Sylvia exclaimed, “that just makes it right!  Please let them take the place of Mr. Shirley and myself.  You see, we haven’t seen each other for three or four years, and it’s hard for us to get interested into a game of cards.”

The whole room caught its breath at once; and here and there one heard a little squeak of hysteria, cut short by some one who was not sure whether it was a joke or a scandal.  “Why—­Sylvia!” stammered Mrs. Witherspoon, completely staggered.

Then Sylvia perceived that she was mistress of the scene.  There came the old rapture of conquest, that made her social genius.  “We have so much that we want to talk about,” she said, in her most winning voice.  “Let Dolly and Emma take our places, and we will sit on the sofa in the other room and chat.  You and Mrs. Armistead come and chaperone us.  Won’t you do that, please?”

“Why—­why——­” gasped the bewildered lady.