Fletcher Hill spoke at her shoulder.
"Sit down!" he said. "There is room here."
There was a small space on the corner of the raised settee that ran along
the side of the room. Dot and Adela sat down together. Hill stood beside
them, looking over the faces of the men present, with keen eyes that
missed nothing.
Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her, seeing only the great
figure that leaned over the table for another stroke. Would he look at
her again? Would he remember her? Would he speak?
Fascinated, she watched him. He executed his stroke, again with that
steady confidence, that self-detachment, that seemed to set him apart
from all other men. He was standing close to her now, and the nearness of
his presence thrilled her. She tingled from head to foot, as if under the
power of an electric battery.
His late opponent stood facing her on the other side of the table, a
grey-haired man with crafty eyes that seemed to look in all directions at
the same time. She took an instinctive dislike to him. He wore a furtive
air.
Warden stood up again, moving with that free swing of his as of one born
to conquer. He turned deliberately and faced them.
"Good evening, Mr. Hill!" he said. "I'm standing drinks all round. I hope
you will join us."
It was frankly spoken, and Hill's instant refusal sounded unnecessarily
curt in Dot's ears.
"No, thanks.
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