"I'm black," she said.
Very well, he was white. The men were placed on the tables. The dice were thrown.
"Deuce!" from the parson.
"Trey!" from Grandmother.
They made their moves. The dice rattled. The emeralds on her left hand winked.
"Doublets!"
"Quatre!" She pronounced it "cater."
The dice were shaken; the players pondered; the men were moved.
"Deuce!"
"Trey!"
"Cinq!"
"Ace!"
The game proceeded. Her head was as clear as ever it had been. Her eyes were bright. She fascinated Finch. He stood behind Mr. Fennel's chair watching her. Sometimes their eyes met, and always there was that flash between them, that complicity of conspirators. "Afraid of life!" her eyes said. "A Court afraid? Watch me!"
He watched her. He could not look away. Across the chasm of more than eighty years their souls met, touched fingers, touched lips.
One by one she got her men home. One by one she took them from the board. She had won the first game!
"A hit!" she cried, striking her hands together. "A hit!"
Two groups had formed in the room, away from the players and Finch, who stood behind the rector, and Wakefield perched on the arm of his grandmother's chair. One of these groups consisted of Meg, Nicholas, Ernest, and Augusta, who in undertones discussed what portent the gift of the ring might have. The other group was composed of Piers, Pheasant, Maurice, and Renny, who talked rather loudly, in an effort to appear unconscious that there was trouble in the air. As Grandmother cried, "A hit!" the faces of the members of both
