"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.