"well now," said the colonel, rousing himself from a brief nirvana of digestion, "i hope that you will not be dull." he said it with the confidence of a man who has just laid before you a pretty convincing sample of his social powers.

durant started; he was alone with the colonel and the wine, and had just made the discovery that when the colonel's face was at rest he was very like an owl.

"to-morrow we'll go exploring together. i should like to take you over my little property."

as a matter of fact, the property was considerable; but durant noticed that its owner applied the endearing diminutive to every object that appealed specially to his egotism. it was a peculiarity of the colonel that he was ready to melt with affection over the things that belonged to himself, and was roused almost to ferocity by whatever interested other people.

"i dare say it will be good for you to see some fresh faces and to be put—in touch—in touch with fresh ideas."

you would have said that durant had been sitting for seven years with his feet on the fender while the colonel roamed the world.

durant agreed. he was being hypnotized by the hooked nose and the round hazel eyes with their radiating wrinkles. he had been five hours in coton manor, it felt like five years, and the evening had only just begun.

his host stared at him, fidgeted nervously for five minutes, plunged into nirvana again, emerged, and with a shamefaced smile suggested that the ladies [pg 237] would be getting impatient. in the drawing-room his nervousness increased; he went on like a person distracted with an intolerable desire; he sat down and got up again; he pirouetted; he played with ornaments; he wandered uneasily about the room, opening and shutting windows, setting pictures straight, and lighting candles; he was a most uncomfortable little colonel of militia. and with every movement he revolved nearer and nearer to a certain table. the table stood in the background; durant recognized it as the kind that opens and discloses the magic circle, the green land of whist. the table had a sweet and sinful fascination for the colonel.

durant had just pulled himself together, and determined that he could bear it if they didn't play some infernal game, if they didn't play whist. and now it seemed that whist was what they played, that whist of course was what mrs. fazakerly was there for. the colonel looked from the table to the group, from the group to the table; there was calculation in his eye, an almost sensual anticipation. he seemed to be saying to himself, "one, two, three, four; the perfect number." durant affected abstraction, and turning to the window gazed out into the dim green landscape. his host's eye followed him; it marked him down as the fourth; it hovered round him, dubious, vacillating, troubled. the colonel had still some torturing remnants of a conscience; he had read the deep repugnance on the young man's face, and hesitated to sacrifice a guest on his first night. he turned helplessly to mrs. fazakerly, who put an end to his struggle.

she touched durant lightly on the shoulder. "come," she murmured gently, like a fate that pitied while she compelled. "come. he wants his little game."

it was as if she had said, "my poor dear sacrificial [pg 238] lamb, he wants his little holocaust. there is no help for it. let me show you the way to the altar."

"frida!" it was the colonel who spoke.

miss tancred spread open the table with the air of a high priestess, hieratic and resigned. the colonel approached it, a lighted candle in each hand. for one moment of time the egotist seemed to be rapt beyond himself; he was serving the great god whist. cards were the colonel's passion; he loved them with delight that was madness, madness that was delight. cards for cards' sake, the pure passion, the high, immaculate abstraction; no gambling, mind you; no playing for penny points; no pandering to a morbid appetite for excitement. with cards in his hand the colonel was transformed. he might be wedded to matter of fact, which is the grossest form of materialism; but at the green table he appeared as a devotee of the transcendent, the science of sciences, whist.

durant curled his long legs under the table and prepared for a miserable evening, while the colonel's face beamed on him from between two candles.

"durant," he said, "you are an acquisition. if it wasn't for you we should have to play with a dummy."

durant replied mournfully that he was not great at the game, but he thought he was about as good as a dummy.

"don't you be too sure of that," said mrs. fazakerly. "there's a great deal to be said for the dummy. he isn't frivolous, he never revokes, he never loses his little temper, and he plays the game."

"yes, i think he can show you some very pretty science, durant." the colonel's mustache and eyebrows and all the wrinkles on his face were agitated, but he made no sound. the owl was pluming all his little feathers, was fluttering with mysterious mirth. [pg 239] oh! he took the lady's humor, he could enter into the thing, he could keep the ball going.

"you see," mrs. fazakerly explained, "he has an intelligence behind him."

"a dummy inspired by colonel tancred would be terrible to encounter," said durant.

miss tancred lifted her eyes from the cards she was shuffling. again he felt her gaze resting upon him for a moment, the same comprehensive, disconcerting gaze. this time it had something pathetic and appealing in it, as if she implored him to take no further notice of her father's fatuity.

"confound the old fellow," he said to himself; "why does he make me say these things?"

when they began durant saw a faint hope of release in his own stupidity, his obvious unfitness for the game. by a studied carelessness, an artful exaggeration of his deficiencies, he courted humiliation, ejection in favor of the dummy. but, as it happened, either his evil destiny had endowed him with her own detestable skill, or else his stupidity was supreme. trying with might and main to lose, he kept on winning with horrible persistency. he was on the winning side; he was made one with the terrible miss tancred; and for the first half hour he found a certain painful interest in watching that impenetrable creature.

miss tancred played the game; she played, now with the rhythm and precision of a calculating machine, now with the blind impetus and swoop of some undeviating natural force. it was not will, it was not intelligence; it was something beyond and above them both, infinitely more detached, more monotonous and cold; something independent even of her desire. durant could see that she had as little love for the game as he had. she played because she always had played, by [pg 240] habit, a second nature that had ousted the first. her skill was so unerring that for durant it robbed the game of its last lingering attraction, the divine element of chance. one tinge of consciousness, one touch of fire, and it would have been sheer devilry. as it was he could have been sorry for her, though in her infinite apathy she seemed to be placed beyond his pity and her own. with no movement save in her delicate sallow fingers, she sat there like an incarnate ennui, the terrible genius of the house.

the colonel, though losing rapidly, was in high good humor. he displayed a chivalrous forbearance with the weakness of mrs. fazakerly, who committed every folly and indiscretion possible to a partner. he bowed when he dealt to her; he bowed when she dealt to him; he bowed when she revoked.

"'to err is human,'" said the colonel.

"'to forgive, divine,'" said mrs. fazakerly, smiling at durant, as much as to say, "you observe his appropriation of the supreme r?le?"

and indeed the colonel bore himself with some consciousness of his metaphysical dignity. he was pleased with everybody, pleased with durant, pleased with mrs. fazakerly, most particularly pleased with colonel tancred, late of the wickshire militia.

and as the game wore on durant realized the full horror of his position. the gallant colonel was not going to leave that table till he had won, and he could never win. he frowned on durant's proposal to change partners; he would accept no easy victory. they were in for a night of it. durant was in torment, but he sat on, fascinated by the abominable beauty of his own play; he sat with every nerve on edge, listening to the intolerable tick of time.

ten o'clock. he thought it had been midnight. he [pg 241] passed his hand over his face, as if to feel if it were stiffening in its expression of agony.

and all the time mrs. fazakerly kept on raising and dropping her eyeglass. now and then she gave him a look that plumbed the sources of his suffering. it seemed to recommend her own courageous attitude, to say, "my dear young man, we are being bored to death; you know it, and i know it. but for goodness' sake, let us die with pleasant faces, since we can but die."

and durant felt that she was right. he fell into her mood, and passed from it into a sort of delirium. there could be no end to it; his partner's pitiless hands would never have done shuffling the cards. black and red, red and black, they danced before him; they assumed extravagant attitudes; they became the symbols of tremendous mysteries. his head seemed to grow lighter; he was visited with fantastic impulses like the caprices of an intoxicated person. to turn on the colonel and ask him what he meant by inflicting this torture on an innocent man, whose only crime had been to trust him too well; to shake the inscrutable miss tancred by the hand and tell her that he knew all—all, and that she had his sympathy; to fall on mrs. fazakerly's neck and cry like a child, he felt that he was capable of any or all of these things. as it was, his behavior must have been sufficiently ridiculous, since it amused mrs. fazakerly so much. the two had reached that topsy-turvy height of anguish that is only expressible by laughter. theirs had a ring of insanity in it; it sounded monstrous and immoral, like the mirth of victims under the shadow of condign extinction. as for his play, he knew it was the play of a madman. and yet he still won; with miss tancred for his partner it was impossible to lose. she sat there unmoved by his wildest aberrations. once, to be sure, [pg 242] she remarked with a shade of irritation in her voice (by some queer freak of nature her voice was unusually sweet), "oh, there! we've got that trick again!" like him, she would have preferred to lose, just to break the maddening monotony of it.

he pitied her. once, in a lucid interval, he actually heard himself paying her a compliment, much as he would have paid a debt of honor. "miss tancred, how magnificently you play!" she answering, "i ought to. i've been doing nothing else since i was ten years old." it was simply horrible. the woman was thirty if she was a day.

half past eleven. midnight gathering in the garden outside. the room was reflected on the window-pane from the solid darkness behind it—the candles, the green table, the players—a fantastic, illusive scene, shimmering on the ground of night as on some sinister reality. mrs. fazakerly was dashing down her cards at random, and even the colonel shuffled uneasily in his seat. at twelve he observed that none of them "seemed very happy in whist"; he proposed loo, a game in which, each person playing for his own hand, he could not be compromised by the ruinous folly of his partner.

at loo miss tancred, also untrammeled, rose to dizzying heights of play. she hovered over the green table, motionless like an eagle victory. then she swooped, invincible. one against three she laid about her, slashed, confounded, and defeated the enemy with terrific slaughter. as durant stammered, idiotic in his desperation, it was "a regular water-loo."

the colonel kept it going. he laughed, "ha-ha! what do you say to a whiskey-and-water-loo? my head's as clear as daylight. i think i could stand another little game if we had some whiskey and water." [pg 243]

a movement of mrs. fazakerly's arm swept the pack on to the floor. "frida," she cried, "take your father and put a mustard plaster on the back of his neck."

miss tancred rose. she just raised the black accent of her eyebrows as she surveyed the disenchanted table, the awful disorder of the cards. she looked at durant and mrs. fazakerly with a passionless, interrogatory stare. then suddenly she seemed to catch the infection of their dreadful mirth. it wrung from her a deeper note. she too laughed, and her laughter was the very voice of ennui, a cry of bitterness, of unfathomable pain. it rang harsh upon her silence and was not nice to hear.

this unlooked-for outburst had the happy effect of bringing the evening to an end. it seemed to be part of the program that the colonel should go home with mrs. fazakerly to take care of her, and that miss tancred should go with them both to take care of the colonel. they had not far to walk; only through the park and across the road to a little house opposite the lodge gates.

while they were looking for their hats durant was left for a moment alone with mrs. fazakerly. she sank into a seat beside him, unstrung, exhausted; she seemed to be verging on that state of nervous collapse which disposes to untimely confidence.

"i like whist," said mrs. fazakerly; "but it must be an awful game to play if you don't like it."

he followed her gaze. it was fixed on miss tancred's retreating figure.

"why on earth does she play if she doesn't like it?"

mrs. fazakerly turned on him, suddenly serious.

"she plays because the colonel likes it—because she is the best girl in the world, mr. durant."

he stood reproved.