ligibly. It was quite as bad as swearing. I tried twice before I succeeded in finding my voice.
"I've told you," I said desperately; "can't you see—that queen isn't free?"
Swiftly—I regret to say, almost with a show of temper—she snatched the four of diamonds from its lawful place and laid it brazenly far outside the game.
"The creature is free," she said crisply—but at once her arrogance was gone and she drooped visibly in weakness.
So quickly did I rise from the table that the cards of the game were hurled into a meaningless confusion. I stood at her side. I had lost myself.
"Little Miss,—oh, Little Miss! I've a thousand arms all crying for you."
Slowly she made her eyes come to mine—not without effort, for we were close.
"I am glad we left you,"—she had meant to say "that arm," I judge, but there was a break in her voice, a swift movement, and she suddenly said "this arm," with a little shudder in which she could not meet my eyes; for, such as the arm was, she had finished her speech from within it. Close I held her, like a witless moonling, forgetting all resolves, all lessons, all treaties—all but that she was not a dream woman.
"Oh, Little Miss!" was all I could say; and she—"Calvin Blake!" as if it were a phrase of endearment.
