And we played a
game, she and I, with her big chin thrust over the board at every move
as she gloated over the pieces and occasionally croaked "Check!" after
which she would sit back inscrutably staring at me. But the game was
never finished. She simply hemmed me defencelessly in with a cloud of
men that held me impotent, and yet one and all refused to administer to
my poor flustered old king a merciful _coup de grace_.
"There," she said, as the clock struck ten--"a drawn game, Withers. We
are very evenly matched. A very creditable defence, Withers. You know
your room. There's supper on a tray in the dining-room. Don't let the
creature over-eat himself. The gong will sound three-quarters of an
hour before a punctual breakfast." She held out her cheek to Seaton,
and he kissed it with obvious perfunctoriness. With me she shook hands.
"An excellent game," she said cordially, "but my memory is poor,
and"--she swept the pieces helter-skelter into the box--"the result
will never be known." She raised her great head far back. "Eh?"
It was a kind of challenge, and I could only murmur: "Oh, I was
absolutely in a hole, you know!" when she burst out laughing and waved
us both out of the room.
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