An Islands Bridge Party.

By “Koi-Koi.”

“I want you to come home early,” said my wife. “Not later than four o’clock.”

“My dear,” I said, “such striking evi dence of your affection stirs my soul to its depths. I —”

She broke in coldly: "I’ve got a bridge four this afternoon, and I want you to help.”

“Ah,” I replied, “if my experience and wide knowledge of the game can be of service—”

She smiled at me sweetly.

“You can see that tea is served pro perly,” she said, “and look after the ciga rettes and ash-trays and things. You know how unreliable native servants are.”

“Very well,” I said, with some dignity.

“If you insist on a Damascene blade to cut string with —”

She looked scornfully at me, and I left.

They arrived very punctually at four o’clock. Apparently they had omitted lunch, and I had some nervous moments as sandwiches and cakes went rapidly on their appointed way. I was about to get a fresh supply when my wife made one of those indefinable feminine move ments which tell her guests unmistak ably that that is that. “Shall we play?” she asked.

They moved to the card table, cut for partners, and sat down in tense silence.

Mrs. Dalby dealt slowly and very care fully.

“The pack’s not complete,” she said plaintively as the last card fluttered with face up, to her partner.

“Count your cards,” said Miss Finch.

They counted.

“Thirteen,” said my wife.

“Fifteen,” said Miss Finch.

“Twelve,” snapped Mrs. Corn.

Mrs. Dalby continued to count.

“Funny,” she said. “I made it thirteen the first time and the second time it was only twelve. I’ll count again.”

Mrs. Corn smiled a wintry smile at her.

“Perhaps you’d find it easier without your rings,” she suggested. “Your deal, Miss Finch.”

Miss Finch dealt with bewildering speed, snapped up her cards and, almost simultaneously bid “three hearts.”

Mrs. Corn looked hurt.

“No bid,” she said reluctantly.

“No bid,” said my wife.

“Let me see,” said Mrs. Dalby placidly.

“Three hearts you said, didn’t you, Miss Finch? How mean of you! I wanted to go hearts myself. Three spades,” she added brightly.

Miss Finch snorted and glanced rapidly over her hand again. “Double,” she snapped, and glared fiercely at Mrs.

Dalby.

Mrs. Corn and my wife passed.

“Content,” said Mrs. Dalby, and looked it.

Miss Finch led the nine of hearts and Mrs. Corn laid down a Yarborough.

“Sorry, partner,” she said.

“It’s all right, my dear,” said Mrs.

Dalby. “I’ll have the two, please.”

She took the trick with the Jack, cleared the trumps in three tricks and led a small heart. Miss Finch’s Queen came down triumphantly and she led the Ace of Diamonds. Mrs. Dalby trumped it.

“The rest are mine, I think.” she said smiling comfortably, and laid down four trumps, the two best hearts and the ace of clubs.

Miss Finch threw down her cards and grimly entered up the score. “A hundred and forty-four,” she said, and put down her pencil with an air of finality.

“I make it more than that,” said Mrs.

Corn.

“Do you?” asked Miss Finch coldly.

“A hundred and forty-four is the score.

Your deal, Mrs. Corn.”

“A hundred for little slam doubled,” said Mrs. Corn.

“No!” said Miss Finch.

"And a hundred for contract doubled.”

“No!” said Miss Finch.

“And three hundred for extra tricks doubled.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Miss Finch.

“And thirty-six for honours doubled.

That’s twice-thirty-sixty-and twice-six twelve-sixty-and - twelve - are - eighty three. And six tricks in spades; six nines are fifty-four, doubled is a hun dred and eight; that’s, let me see, seven hundred and sixty. Game and rubber,” she concluded triumphantly.

Things seemed to be getting a little mixed. I hovered round, uneasily.

“But that was the first hand,” pro tested my wife. “It can’t be rubber yet?”

“Yes it is,” said Mrs. Corn, with the air of one defending her own. “A rubber is two hundred and fifty points, and we are seven hundred and sixty.”

“What made you go three hearts?” asked Mrs. Dalby, pleasantly.

“Oh, don’t you know the Culbertson convention?” replied Miss Finch. “It meant I wanted my partner to go no trumps, so that I could take her out into clubs.”

“Oh!” cried my wife excitedly. "Is that the psychic bid? I do wish you’d teach me how to do it.”

“I’ve made a mistake,” said Mrs. Corn.

“It should be six hundred and seventy, not seven hundred and sixty. No, that’s not right, either.”

“Could I have a cigarette?” pleaded Miss Finch, faintly.

I officiated, and placed an ash-tray at her elbow.

“But how could you have taken me out into clubs?” asked my wife. “You didn’t have any.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” replied Miss Finch. “I’ll explain it all to you some time.”

“That's right, isn’t it?” queried Mrs.

Corn, handing me her scoring block.

“A hundred and forty-four,” said Miss Finch, wearily, “and game to you.”

“And why did you double three spades?” asked my wife. “Was that psy chic, too?”

“I make it three hundred and ninety four,” I said firmly.

“That’s four shillings, anyhow,” said Mrs. Corn.

“What are we playing for?” asked Mrs. Dalby.

“Love,” said my wife, “Threepence,” said Miss Finch, and Mrs. Corn put in a pained protest: “Six pence a hundred, surely.”

“We’ve never played for more than threepence before,” said Miss Finch.

“No,” agreed Mrs. Corn, “but we ought to. These low stakes are so bad for our game.”

“Can’t see it,” said Miss Finch. “I’ve never played for high stakes.”

“How would it be,” I suggested tact fully, “to play on and see what happens.

You could fix the stakes later.”

They agreed. Mrs. Corn dealt and passed. My wife bid a heart; Mrs. Dalby a spade; Miss Finch a no-trump. Mrs.

Corn raised her partner one and my

wife made it three hearts. Mrs. Dalby passed, and Miss Finch went to three no-trumps.

Mrs. Corn led the ace of spades and followed with a small one which her partner took with the king. Mrs. Dalby then took five more tricks in the same suit and led the ace of diamonds. Miss Finch discarded a small heart. Mrs.

Dalby led the queen of diamonds and Miss Finch, with great dignity, played the king.

“Revoke,” cried Mrs. Corn.

“Nonsense,” protested Miss Finch.

“You discarded a heart last trick,” said Mrs. Corn, reaching for the quitted tricks in front of her partner.

“Not allowed to look at any trick after it’s quitted,” said Miss Finch severely.

“You should have claimed a revoke at the time.”

“But how could we?” cried Mrs. Corn.

“We didn’t know you had a diamond until you played it.”

“That’s your affair,” said Miss Finch.

“I’ve played enough bridge to know that you have to claim a revoke at once or not at all. Besides, I didn’t revoke, did I partner?”

“I’m afraid you did, Miss Finch,” said my wife.

“Anyhow, it’s too late now,” said Miss Finch. “Your play Mrs. Corn. Culbert son says—”

But nobody showed any interest in Culbertson. Mrs. Corn and my wife played low cards and Miss Finch gathered up the trick.

“My lead, I think,” said Mrs. Dalby.

“No,” said Miss Finch. “I won the last trick.”

“But you should have played the king on my ace.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t matter,” claimed Mrs.

Corn. “And the penalty; three tricks to us and a hundred and fifty above the line. And,” she added severely, “you can’t score below the line for the rest of the rubber.”

“Really, Mrs. Corn, this is absurd. I’ve played the strictest bridge with all the best players, and they never claim any penalty for a revoke if it’s accidental.

Your lead, partner.”

Mrs. Corn subsided sulkily, and my wife took the four remaining tricks in hearts.

Mrs. Dalby leaned back, smiling in pleasant anticipation. My wife, a little nervously, I thought, made some remark about golf, and looked at me appealingly.

Mrs. Corn’s jaws were clamped tightly, and she was breathing hard through her nose. Miss Finch smiled acidly, her head held very high. She opened her mouth to speak.

“May I give you a cocktail, Miss Finch?” 1 suggested.

"Thank you,” she answered readily.

The others agreed, and I served them eagerly. Mrs. Corn swallowed hers while the others sipped.

“Absurdly small glasses, aren’t they?” she remarked. I recharged it for her. Miss Finch rather hurriedly finished hers. I poured her another, and, very gracefully, I thought, engaged her in conversation.

My wife and Mrs. Corn were discussing somebody’s baby. Mrs. Dalby conducted a placid but ruthless attack on a dish of crystallised ginger.

“I did the fourth in three yesterday,” said Miss Finch nonchalantly.

“Did you really?” I said eagerly. “Do tell me about it.”

She did, at some length.

“The child is ill,” said Mrs. Corn.

“Anybody can see that it’s neglected.”

“Oh, surely not,” said my wife. “I thought it looked splendid.”

“The last lot of ginger I had was all mushy,” said Mrs. Dalby. “This is lovely.”

I replaced the empty dish with a full one.

“But the seventh green’s a disgrace to any club,” said Miss Finch. “I com plained about it last week, but it didn’t make any difference.”

“Little bows of pink ribbon —’’

“The sweet little thing—”

“I’d have done it in two except for rotten luck.”

“Matches, please.”

“I lost three balls last time I played,” crooned Mrs. Dalby happily.

“And I told him so, straight out.”

“Another cocktail, Mrs. Dalby?”

“Well, if they’re not engaged they ought to be.”

“He’s a charming boy, though.”

“Something so rhythmic about your swing,”’

I slipped over to the gramophone and put on a jazz record. The hum of con versation rose at once in determined competition. When I came back, Mrs.

Dalby was telling my wife a story of her first husband, while Miss Finch and Mrs. Corn smiled amicably over some social triumph. This was splendid. My wife’s bridge party was an undoubted success.

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Corn at last, “I suppose we had better finish the rubber.”

In the sudden hush I cleared the table rapidly, and my wife dealt the cards.

“No trumps,” declared Mrs. Dalby, in obvious excitement.

"Fresh deal,” said Miss Finch severely.

“You called out of turn.”

“Oh, but I must play this hand,” said Mrs. Dalby. “It’s lovely.”

A motor horn sounded outside.

“My car,” said Mrs. Corn, laying down her cards. “I must go. Sorry, but I have some people coming to dinner. Can I give you a lift, Miss Finch? Mrs.

Dalby?”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Dalby, while Miss Finch smiled her acceptance. “Just look at that hand.”

Apparently she had every picture card in the pack.

Miss Finch was already at the door, which I was quick enough to open for her.

“Good-bye,” she said. “It’s been a lovely party.”

“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Dalby. “Do tell me where you got that ginger.”

“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Corn. “Come and play bridge with me on Monday.

I’ve got the loveliest shoes to show you —24/11, my dear, reduced from 25/6.

Good-bye.”

My wife looked played-out. As the car rolled away, “My dear,” I said reproach fully, Why do you do it?”

“Oh,” she replied, looking at me in surprise, “I love bridge.”