without an _obbligato_ accompaniment on muted strings; unwhispered
whispers of "confounded blockhead!" "blundering idiot!" "well, of all
the born fools!" and similar objurgations.

When I came to think the matter over in cold blood, I could see
that my proper course would have been to lead the losing card before
drawing my partner's trump. I merely made a mistake (a fatal one I
grant) in the order of playing them. That was all.

* * * * *

My friend goes on to make learned remarks about "American leads," "the
fourth best," and the difficulties of playing a knave; lead him at
once, _I_ think, on _Dogberry's_ principle: and "thank heaven you are
rid of a knave."

The depths of my guilt may be guessed from the fact that many of my
Mentor's explanations are Hittite to me. People talking of laying up
a wretched old age by not playing, I should be laying it up for other
people if I did play much. Half-crown points, a partner who knows how
to score (those counters and candlesticks, or the machines with little
bone grave-stones that shut up with a snap, bother me), and amiable
conversation on well-chosen topics while the game goes on, make the
kind of Whist that I enjoy. We used to play it in Common Room in the
happy past; it was easier than Loo, which I never quite understood.
The rigour of the game is the ruin of Whist.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE NEW L.C.C. WAXWORKS.