The game began. Hardcase and Bleedem also had taken their seats and commenced theirs. Professor Cyanite retired to write his letter, whilst Messrs. Blackdeed and Crucible drew their chairs up to the fire and talked politics.
A stillness reigned through the club as the last-mentioned gentlemen conversed together in a low tone and the rest remained absorbed in their several occupations. Suddenly, in the midst of this unusual silence, the triumphant voice of Mr. Oldstone was heard to cry out the magic word, "check-mate."
"Now then, Parnassus, my boy," said he, rubbing his hands, "a story, you know; there's no getting out of it. Give us a little ode or ballad like that you gave us once before, on the night of our grand saturnalia."
"When I can think of one and a propitious moment presents itself, I am at your service, but these gentlemen, you see, are otherwise occupied; besides, here comes Helen to lay the cloth for supper."
"Well, Helen," cried Mr. Oldstone, "and what has become of your enamoured portrait painter?"
"Mr. McGuilp?" inquired Helen, blushing deeply. "Is he not here? I left him some time ago cleaning his palette and brushes."
"Ah! here he comes at last," exclaimed Crucible, halting in the middle of his politics. "Lucky dog! to be able to have so much beauty all to himself."
"Well, if he has had Helen to himself all this time, we've had a story during his absence," said the antiquary.
"Ah, but so have we," said McGuilp. "Haven't we Helen?"
"Yes, we have indeed, and a long one," replied Helen.