"Come, come," he said at last. "Will you play?"
"But that is gambling," Fenworth repeated again. "You are a bishop."
"Chess is never gambling, no matter what is at stake," the bishop affirmed. "Chance plays no part in it, for it is purely a game of skill. You are a good player, are you not?"
Fenworth did not reply, but continued to stare into the bishop's face.
"Much better than the average, I take it," the bishop continued, with a suggestion of sarcasm in his voice. "A really fine player, perhaps?"
"Father!" Constance admonished him.
The asperity in his voice amazed and wounded her.
"An uncommonly brilliant player, I believe?" the bishop continued, not heeding his daughter's interruption.
"Yes, sir," Fenworth answered, nettled. "I think I may say so without boasting, if past achievements prove anything. I am the best in the chess club. I won the intercity trophy two years running."
"Very good, then," Bishop Fergus continued, smiling blandly and rubbing his hands together rather gleefully. "In that case, it would seem that I am taking all the risks, and you none. Bring up the board, my boy. You will find it behind the book-shelf in Granby's cabin, and the chessmen are in the table drawer."
His face beamed as he saw Fenworth disappear. Not for weeks had he seemed so happy.
"He held her before him on the shoulders of his black mare."
