artner," said Scaife, "and the fool went no trumps
holding two missing suits. The enemy doubled, my partner redoubled,
and the others redoubled again: that made it ninety-six a trick. The
fellow on the left held my partner's missing suits; he made the Little
Slam, and scored nearly six hundred below the line. It gave 'em the
rubber, too, and I had to fork out a couple of quid."

"What are you jawing about, Demon?" said Desmond.

"Bridge. It's the new game. It's going to be the rage. Do you play
bridge, Caesar?"

"No. I want to learn it."

"All right, I must teach you."

"We could get up a four in this house," said Lovell. "We three and the
Caterpillar. He plays, I know. The Colonel is one of the cracks at
the Turf. It would be an awful lark. A mild gamble: small points--eh?
A bob a hundred. What do you say, Caesar?"

Desmond hesitated. Bridge had not yet reached its delirious stage.
But Desmond had seen it played, had heart his father praise it as the
most fascinating of card-games, and had determined to learn it at the
first convenient opportunity. None the less Warde's words still echoed
in his ear.

"I think we ought to give Warde a chance," he said.

"You don't mean to say you were taken in by him?" said Lovell,
contemptuously.

Desmond burst into enthusiastic praise of Warde and his methods.
Lovell shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room, nodding to
Scaife, but ignoring Desmond.

"You must go canny with Lovell," said Scaife. "He's the fellow who
ought to give you your 'fez' after the first house-game."

"Never mind that. You won't play bridge, Demon, will you?"

"Why not?" said Scaife. "Where's the harm? Your governor plays----"

"Yes; but----"

"You're afraid of getting sacked?"

"I'm not."

"All right; I'll take that back. You're not a funk, Caesar, but you're
so easily humbugged. Warde caught you with his 'pi jaw' and a glass of
gooseberry."

"The champagne was all right, wasn't it?"

"Oh, ho! So you do mean to stand in with Warde against Lovell and me?
Thanks for being so candid. Now I'll be candid with you. I like
Lovell. There's no nonsense about him. He don't put on frills because
he's in the Sixth, and he don't mean to take to their sneaking, spying
ways. He's just as anxious as Warde to see the Manor cock-house at
footer and cricket, and I'm as keen as he is; but we stop there. The
Balliol Scholarship may go hang. And as for sympathy and fellow