“Oh, Walter, how you talk!” cried Milicent; “she has far more pieces than you still.”
“I intend to give you some trouble yet,” said I; “and perhaps, sir, you will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your queen.”
The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I did give him some trouble: but he was a better player than I.
“What keen gamesters you are!” said Mr. Hattersley, who had now entered, and been watching us for some time. “Why, Mrs. Huntingdon, your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter, you dog, you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success, and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood! But if I were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear: she’ll hate you if you do—she will, by heaven! I see it in her eye.”
“Hold your tongue, will you?” said I: his talk distracted me, for I was driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably entangled in the snare of my antagonist.
“Check,” cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape. “Mate!” he added, quietly, but with evident delight. He had suspended the utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured, “Beaten, beaten!” and gazed into my face with a look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting.
“No, never, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.
“Do you deny?” replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. “No, no,” I answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear: “you have beaten me in that game.”
“Will you try another, then?”
“No.”