"Charity," said Madam Jenks, "we will not have one of your Times. I forbid it. Go to your room, after all the effort your father and I have made, and that continually."
"Don't you bring Papa into it and him lying up there dead to the world!"
"Charity!" That was Faith, rising, then kneeling quickly by her mother, whose round face had gone gray as ash.
"I will go away forever," said Charity in a sudden loud rage of tears. "Even as Mr. Binyon. I tell you my steps will go down unto the Whore of Babylon!"
"Reuben, I've thought occasionally that the game hath something in common with the course of living. The opening—that's a preparation like youth, and I alway thought, if a chess player might truly understand the opening no other player could defeat him—a'n't that so? Still, it is too complex, the possibilities too near to infinite, for any mind to hold 'em all, and so the best of players will inevitably fumble the opening, at least a little, missing some bright opportunities, the result a compromise with what might have been. Then the middle game—action, struggle, changes of fortune, more opportunities lost, and a few fairly grasped at the just moment."
"I believe I like that, Mr. Welland. And the end game?"
"The end game, if one may arrive at it—some die young, you know, some from a Fool's Mate, or blind chance may overset the board—but if one may arrive—oh dear! Oh dear me! That knight, through my poor wall of pawns—dare say it's all up with me. I will try this. What next?"
"This, sir. You left a hole for my Bishop too."
"So, for my sins, I did. Brrr!... Well, this."