"Uncle Peter" looked no more miserable than, he had the week before when she had met him, save that his eyes burned deeper. His voice was more petulant, he wasted no time in preliminaries, merely ejaculated a grateful,
"Ah! Why didn't you come earlier?"
The nurse sat by her light, reading; the chess board lay on the small table; Uncle Peter was propped in his cushions and the game began.
From below stairs Felicia could hear faint echoes of conversations. She had heard the mistress of the house departing in the same motor that had brought them, but a steady rumble of men's voices and a faint aroma of cigars floated up the stairway. You can't think what exultation it gave her, just having a sense of nearness to sturdy masculinity after a lifetime of invalids and old folks! She liked the spirit of argument that dimly arose, the eager confab—"It's not feasible"—"It couldn't be pulled off"—"Quixotic plan"—"take a mint of money—"
The sheltered sick room was like all her life, but below stairs there were—men! She moved her pawns quietly, watching Uncle Peter's adroit game. She watched too, something else, the light in Uncle Peter's eyes. They sparkled.
The room was impossibly hot yet the old man shivered, just as Grandy shivered, and drew his dressing gown closer. Felicia was very tired from her exciting day. She grew paler and paler; the circles under her eyes grew deeper; her forehead was moist; her hand trembled a bit. But presently she heard.
"Check!" She roused herself, she had been playing badly, he had caught her! But he laughed, a feeble, senile laugh, and leaned back, altogether pleased with himself.
"A drink," he panted and closed his eyes. "Come again, Miss Whadda- you-call-it-"
The nurse's eyes reproached her as she tiptoed out.
A pert maid arose, from the hall chair,