"I am not a very good player. I shall hardly give you amusement."
"I am not sorry for that—supposing it true. I do not like to see women good chess-players."
"Pray why do you not like it?"
"Chess is a game of planning—scheming—contriving—calculating. Women ought not to be adepts in those arts. I hate women that are."
He glanced up as he spoke, at the fair, frank lines of the face opposite him. No art to scheme was shewn in them; there might be resolution; he liked that. He liked it too that the fringe of the eyes drooped over them, and that the tint of the cheek was so very rich.
"But they say, no one can equal a woman in scheming and planning, if she takes to it," said Eleanor.
"Try your skill," said he. "It is your move."
The game began, and Eleanor tried to make good play; but she could not bring to it the same coolness or the same acumen that had fought with Miss Broadus. The well-formed, well-knit hand with the coat sleeve belonging to it, which was all of her adversary that came under her observation, distracted Eleanor's thoughts; she could not forget whose it was. Very different from the weak flexile fingers of Miss Broadus, with their hesitating movement and doubtful pauses, these did their work and disappeared; with no doubt or hesitancy of action, and with agile firmness in every line of muscle and play. Eleanor shewed very poor skill for her part, at planning and contriving on this occasion; and she had a feeling that her opponent might have ended the game many a time if he had chosen it. Still the game did not end. It was a very silent one.
"You are playing with me, Mr. Carlisle," she said at length.
"What are you doing with me?"