He had straightened himself again, and was coming round the table to follow up his stroke. Fletcher Hill spoke at her shoulder.
"Sit down!" he said. "There is room here."
There was a small space on the corner of the raised settee that ran along the side of the room. Dot and Adela sat down together. Hill stood beside them, looking over the faces of the men present, with keen eyes that missed nothing.
Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her, seeing only the great figure that leaned over the table for another stroke. Would he look at her again? Would he remember her? Would he speak?
Fascinated, she watched him. He executed his stroke, again with that steady confidence, that self-detachment, that seemed to set him apart from all other men. He was standing close to her now, and the nearness of his presence thrilled her. She tingled from head to foot, as if under the power of an electric battery.
His late opponent stood facing her on the other side of the table, a grey-haired man with crafty eyes that seemed to look in all directions at the same time. She took an instinctive dislike to him. He wore a furtive air.
Warden stood up again, moving with that free swing of his as of one born to conquer. He turned deliberately and faced them.
"Good evening, Mr. Hill!" he said. "I'm standing drinks all round. I hope you will join us."
It was frankly spoken, and Hill's instant refusal sounded unnecessarily curt in Dot's ears.
"No, thanks. I am with ladies," he said. "I suppose the play is over?"