And this was unselfish of him, for bridge meant sandwiches. Punctually
at nine o'clock on bridge nights the butler would deposit on a
side-table a plate of chicken sandwiches and (in deference to Peter's
vegetarian views) a smaller plate of cheese sandwiches. At the close of
play Mrs. Rastall-Retford would take one sandwich from each plate,
drink a thimbleful of weak whisky and water, and retire.
Peter could always do with a sandwich or two these days. But he was
prepared to abandon them joyfully if his hostess would waive bridge for
this particular evening.
It was not to be. In the drawing-room Mrs. Rastall-Retford came out of
her trance and called imperiously for the cards. Peter, when he saw his
hand after the first deal, had a presentiment that if all his hands
were to be as good as this, the evening was going to be a trying one.
On the other occasions when they had played he had found it an
extremely difficult task, even with moderate cards, to bring it about
that his hostess should always win the odd rubber, for he was an
excellent player, and, like most good players, had an artistic
conscience which made it painful to him to play a deliberately bad
game, even from the best motives.
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