Oh, what awful luck!"
Everyone screamed with laughter, for the Norman was looking with
unfeigned concern at his bit of paper.
"_Je n'aime pas le treize_, madame," he protested, disregarding the
prevailing mirth.
"But--what can I do? It's a nice table in the billiard-room. Who's your
partner?"
"Lady Sophy Browne--which is she?"
"Oh, Sophy Browne. Go on drawing, you men, I must speak to Fred. I say,
Fred----"
The good-natured Cassowary tramped across to the door where the Sparrow
was standing, and bending down, said something to him.
"Is he really? I say, that's too bad. But you can't change the tables,
can you, dear?"
"I don't know. These kind of people are so superstitious, you see; it's
enough to make him glum all the evening, and Sophy was so keen--she says
he looks like a bust by Rodin, and she wants to do him in pen and ink."
The Sparrow rubbed his pointed nose thoughtfully.
"Change the two of 'em to another table, can't you?"
"I've got 'em all sorted, though. Unless--I might change Billy and the
Farquhar girl to their table, and put them in the boudoir balcony! Billy
wouldn't mind and the Farquhar girl doesn't matter; she didn't get me
those tickets, anyhow.
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