ighting
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 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 pr