"Doesn't Bill seem worried to you?" I asked, more casually than my mental state warranted.
"Who? Bill? Why no, I don't think so," he answered, absently. "He's probably put all this native business out of his head by now. Bill's not an alarmist. Wonder what that song is--quaint, isn't it?"
But I was not satisfied, and after dinner, I deliberately found an opportunity, contrary to custom, to speak with my husband alone.
"About the Crowell plantation," I said, "is there any danger to them from the natives--to us?"
"There is always more or less danger," he answered, with the formal courtesy which had recently characterized all of our infrequent, unattended encounters, "but I do not think we need worry. Still, I shall forbid Peter to go out in the fields, or beyond the house alone, and I must ask you also to be careful. I'm sorry to curtail your freedom--but, if you don't mind--?"
Perversely, I suddenly "minded" very much.
"I won't run any risks," I answered, with mental reservations.
"There you two are again! Sneaking off, whispering, heads together! Aren't you just a little tired of twosing by now?"
It was Wright, coming up behind us. I thought I detected a little, cynical gleam in Mercedes' eyes, and laid my hand defiantly on Bill's arm.
"Do men tire of life?" he counter questioned, gallantly, and I knew a swift admiration for his histrionic powers. For his voice went a little deep, quite suddenly, and the hand over mine shook.
"Nice answer," said Wright critically, "quite emotional, but open to argument. Of course men tire of life. Some of them commit suicide, some of them drink, others get married! The remedy is entirely according to temperament."
"Horrid man!" said Mercedes, pouting. And answering amiably, "Am I not?" Wright guided her to the bridge table, having persuaded her at dinner that, with him as partner, she could trump his ace to her heart's content.
As we followed them, Bill said, very low,
"I'll remember," I answered, non-committally, and we sat down to the cards.
It was interesting to observe that Mercedes, her previous assertions to the contrary, played a much better game than any of us, excepting, perhaps, Bill.
So, after all, it had been from choice and not lack of knowledge, that she had not joined the game the night of the dinner. Which looked as if someone else had been manoeuvering besides myself. But I forgave her. She was so pretty that one could not expect her to always play quite "according to Hoyle."