groups turned toward her, and they clapped their hands, applauding her.
"Well played, my grandmother!" cried Wakefield, patting her on the back.
Finch's eyes sought hers, found them, held them. She felt suddenly tired. She was very tired, but very happy.
"You have me badly beaten," said Mr. Fennel, stroking his beard.
"Ah, yes. I'm in good form to-day," she mumbled. "Very good form—to-night."
Boney shuffled on his perch, shook himself, gaped. Two bright feathers were loosened, and sank slowly to the floor.
Mr. Fennel stared at him.
"He doesn't talk now, eh?"
"No," she answered, craning her neck so as to see the bird. "He doesn't talk at all. Poor Boney! Poor old Boney! Doesn't talk at all. Doesn't say curse words. Doesn't say love words. Silent as the grave, hey, Boney?"
"Shall we have another game?" asked Mr. Fennel.
The two groups had resumed their preoccupations. Renny's laugh broke out sharply.
"Another game? Yes, I'd like another game. I'm white!"
Mr. Fennel and Wakefield exchanged glances.
"But, Gran," cried Wakefield, "you were black before!"
"Black! Not a bit of it, I'm white."
Mr. Fennel changed the men, giving her the white ones.
The men were placed. The dice shaken. The game proceeded.
"Deuce!"
"Cinq!"
"The Doublet!"
But her head was no longer clear. She fumbled for her men, and could not have got through the game had not Wakefield, leaning on her shoulder, helped her with the play.
