“Thank you, dear; most charming!”

Mrs. Bellew left the piano, and sat down beside her.  George moved into the bay-window.  He knew nothing of chess-indeed, he could not stand the game; but from here, without attracting attention, he could watch Mrs. Bellew.

The air was drowsy and sweet-scented; a log of cedarwood had just been put on the fire; the voices of his mother and Mrs. Bellew, talking of what he could not hear, the voices of Lady Malden, Mrs. Brandwhite, and Gerald, discussing some neighbours, of Mrs. Winlow dissenting or assenting in turn, all mingled in a comfortable, sleepy sound, clipped now and then by the voice of General Pendyce calling, “Check!” and of Bee saying, “Oh, uncle!”

A feeling of rage rose in George.  Why should they all be so comfortable and cosy while this perpetual fire was burning in himself?  And he fastened his moody eyes on her who was keeping him thus dancing to her pipes.

He made an awkward movement which shook the chess-table.  The General said behind him:  “Look out, George!  What—­what!”

George went up to his mother.

“Let’s have a look at that, Mother.”

Mrs. Pendyce leaned back in her chair and handed up her work with a smile of pleased surprise.

“My dear boy, you won’t understand it a bit.  It’s for the front of my new frock.”

George took the piece of work.  He did not understand it, but turning and twisting it he could breathe the warmth of the woman he loved.  In bending over the embroidery he touched Mrs. Bellew’s shoulder; it was not drawn away, a faint pressure seemed to answer his own.  His mother’s voice recalled him: 

“Oh, my needle, dear!  It’s so sweet of you, but perhaps”

George handed back the embroidery.  Mrs. Pendyce received it with a grateful look.  It was the first time he had ever shown an interest in her work.

Mrs. Bellew had taken up a palm-leaf fan to screen her face from the fire.  She said slowly: 

“If we win to-morrow I’ll embroider you something, George.”

“And if we lose?”

Mrs. Bellew raised her eyes, and involuntarily George moved so that his mother could not see the sort of slow mesmerism that was in them.

“If we lose,” she said, “I shall sink into the earth.  We must win, George.”

He gave an uneasy little laugh, and glanced quickly at his mother.  Mrs. Pendyce had begun to draw her needle in and out with a half-startled look on her face.

“That’s a most haunting little song you sang, dear,” she said.

Mrs. Bellew answered:  “The words are so true, aren’t they?”

George felt her eyes on him, and tried to look at her, but those half-smiling, half-threatening eyes seemed to twist and turn him about as his hands had twisted and turned about his mother’s embroidery.  Again across Mrs. Pendyce’s face flitted that half-startled look.