don't! No getting away from me. . . . Bang, there goes your man! Checkmate!"
A clear treble replied, with a petulant note: "You're not playing chess, my grandmother; this is backgammon."
"Of course it's backgammon."
"Then why do you use the terms of chess, Gran?"
Silence for a moment, then the old voice, with the tremor of a chuckle in it: "Because I like to fuss up my opponent."
"I'm not fussed up."
"Yes, you are. Don't contradict me. I won't have it."
"Anyhow, there goes one of your men. Bang!"
"And here goes one of yours! Bang! Bang!"
"Why, Granny, you're on one of the wrong points!"
"Very well. I took the trick, didn't I?"
"Now you're talking as though it were a card game."
"Now I've got you fussed up!"
"But don't you honestly forget when you use those wrong terms?"
"Of course I don't forget. . . . Your play, now."
"But," persisted the treble, "you forgot when you moved on to the white point."
"Bosh! I've made people believe black was white before this."
Overcome by curiosity, Leigh moved to the doorway and stared into the room. He saw a large, high-ceilinged parlour, the walls of which were covered by an ornate gilded paper and hung with oil paintings. Dark red curtains cherished it against the January daylight. A fresh fire of birch logs gave it light and heat from within. Leigh wondered if the furniture with which the room was crowded could be real Chippendale. If it were, he was sure it would be worth a fortune. With greater intensity he wondered if the figure before the fire could be real, that old, old woman in the purple velvet tea-gown, the large lace cap with gay rosettes of ribbon, the carven, sardonic face. The effect of the little boy sitting opposite her was one of bright fragility. And yet he
