As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely to please himself.  He took an artistic interest in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of the game did not seem to enter into his calculation.  He played like a sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly, but never selfishly.  It was impossible to watch him with indifference.  Even his failures were sensational.  As Adela had said of him, he was amazing.

Hill’s play was absolutely steady.  It lacked the vitality of the younger man’s, but it had about it a clockwork species of regularity that Dot found curiously pleasing to watch.  She had not thought that her interest could be so deeply aroused; before the game was half through she was as deeply absorbed as anyone present.

It did not take her long to realize that public sympathy was entirely on Warden’s side, and it was that fact more than any other that disposed her in Fletcher’s favour.  She saw that he had a hard fight before him, for Warden led almost from the beginning, though with all his brilliancy he never drew very far ahead.  Fletcher kept a steady pace behind him, and she knew he would not be easily beaten.

Once he came and stood beside her after a very creditable break, and she slipped a shy hand into his for a few seconds.  His fingers closed upon it in that slow, inevitable way of his, but he neither spoke nor looked at her, and she had a feeling that his attention never for an instant wandered from the job in hand.  She admired him for his concentration, yet would she have been less than woman had she not felt slighted by it.  He might have given her one look!

Adela was full of enthusiasm for his opponent, and that also caused her a vague sense of irritation.  She was beginning to feel as if the evening would never come to an end.

The scoring was by no means slow, however, and the general interest increased almost to fever pitch as the finish came in sight.  Hill’s steady progress in the wake of his opponent seemed at length to disconcert the latter.  He began to play wildly, to attempt impossible things.  His supporters remonstrated without result.  He seemed to have flung away his judgment.

Hill’s score mounted till it reached and passed his.  They were within twenty points of the end when Warden suddenly missed an easy stroke.  A noisy groan broke from the onlookers, at which he shrugged his shoulders and laughed.  But Hill turned upon him with a stern reproof.

“You’re playing the fool, Warden,” he said.  “Pull up!”

He spoke with curt command, and the man he addressed looked at him for a second with raised brows, as if he would take offence.  But in a moment he laughed again.

“You haven’t beaten me yet, sir,” he said.

“No,” said Hill.  “And I don’t value—­an easy victory.”

There followed a tense silence while he resumed his play.  Steadily his score mounted, and it seemed to Dot that there was hostility in the very atmosphere.  She wondered what would happen if he scored the hundred before his opponent had another chance.  She hoped he would not do so, and yet she did not want to see him beaten.