I am with ladies," he said. "I suppose the play is over?"
Warden glanced across the table. "Unless Harley wants his revenge," he
said.
The grey-haired man uttered a laugh that was like the bark of a vicious
dog. "I'll have that another day," he said. "It won't spoil by keeping.
You are a player yourself, Mr. Hill. Why don't you take him on?"
"Oh, do!" burst forth Adela. "I should love to see a good game. You ask
him to, Dot! He'll do it for you."
But Dot sat silent, her fingers straining against each other, her eyes
fixed straight before her, seeing yet unseeing, as one beneath a spell.
There was a momentary pause. The room was full of the harsh babel of
men's voices. The drinks were being distributed.
Suddenly a voice spoke out above the rest. "Here's to the new manager!
Good luck to him! Bill Warden, here's to you! Success and plenty of it!"
Instantly the hubbub increased a hundredfold. Bill Warden swung round
laughing to face the clamour, and the tension went out of Dot. She
drooped forward with a weary gesture. As in a dream she heard the
laughter and the shouting. It seemed to sweep around her in great billows
of sound. But she was too tired to notice, too tired to care. He did not
know her. She was sure of that now. He had forgotten. The memory that
had affected her so poignantly had slipped like a dim cloud below his
horizon. The glory had departed, and life was grey and cold.
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