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 "Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Phelps and Mr. Barbour, sir. They're playing bridge."

Jock was displeased. He wanted to talk with his mother, and he knew that if she had a bridge game on he might quite possibly have to postpone the talk for hours, late though it already was. Mrs. Hamill made a religion of bridge. She played it with a passionate intensity that amounted almost to fever, often from dinner until dawn, and she would under no circumstances allow herself to be interrupted.

"I think they'll quit soon, sir," added Bennett hopefully. "I heard Mr. Barbour say he had to go after the next rubber."

Jock scooped up a handful of sandwiches and made his way to the front of the house, munching as he went. By the door of the den he stopped and stood hesitant. He could hear the little swishing slap of thin paste-boards on a patent leather table-top; aside from that, the silence was absolute. When a sudden outbreak of voices told him that the hand was over, he sauntered in.

"But Henry, my dear!" Mrs. Hamill was expostulating. "Why on earth play the eight spot in a case like that, when you knew very well I had—" She broke off. "Hello, Jock," she said, and smiled at him. "Do sit down, my dear, and observe the peculiar maneuvers of Mr. Henry Barbour. I want you to learn from him how not to play bridge!"

Mrs. Hamill was the kind of woman who can make such remarks and, in the modern parlance, get away with them. No one ever waxed wroth at Mrs. Hamill. No man, that is. She was too altogether exquisite. She had great brown eyes, dark brows and lashes, astonishing silver hair, which she wore cut in a shingle bob, a small slim figure, and hands as soft and appealing as a baby's. Hands to be kissed, those. Hands to