"Why—why, you've won!"
"So I have," acknowledged her antagonist. "Shall I apologize?"
Isabel started to speak, and checked herself. She had been chiefly intent upon her own accomplishment, and Gerard's playing was of a deceptive leisureliness and tranquillity.
"How many did you make in that last run?" she asked, finally.
"Only seventeen."
"You can't do it again."
"One never can tell."
"Play," she defied.
Gerard glanced hopelessly at the streaming windows.
"It is growing late," he demurred.