‘Devotion surpassing Penelope’s. And Daphne, I suppose, is still a tyro at the game. We must give you seventy-five out of a hundred.’ ‘You are vastly condescending,’ exclaimed Daphne, drawing herself up. ‘You will give me nothing! I don’t care how ignominiously I am beaten; but I will not be treated like a baby.’ ‘_Und etwas schnïppish doch zugleich_,’ quoted Mr. Goring, smiling to himself in the darkness. And now Edgar Turchill came out of the drawing-room, and the two young men went down the shallow flight of steps to the conservatory, where Madoline and her sister were still seated in their wicker-work chairs in front of the open door, through which the moonlit garden looked so fair a scene of silent peace. ‘Daphne is quite right to reject your humiliating concessions,’ said Edgar. ‘She and I will play against you and Madoline, and beat you.’ ‘Easily done, my worthy Saxon,’ answered Gerald, who was apt to make light of his friend’s ancient lineage, in a good-natured easy-going way. ‘I have never given more than a fraction of my mind to billiards.’ ‘Then you must be a deuced bad player,’ said Edgar bluntly. They all went down into the billiard-room, where Daphne’s eyes sparkled with unaccustomed fire in the lamplight, as if the mere notion of the coming contest had fevered her excitable brain. Turchill, who was thoroughly earnest in his amusements, took off his coat with the air of a man who meant business. Gerald Goring slipped out of his as if he were going to lie down for an after-dinner nap on one of the broad morocco-covered divans. And now began the fight. Gerald and Madoline were obviously nowhere, from the very beginning. Daphne had a firmness of wrist, a hawklike keenness of eye, an audacity of purpose that accomplished miracles. The more difficult the position the better her stroke. Her boldness conquered where a more cautious player must have failed. She sent her adversaries’ ball rattling into the pockets with a dash that even stimulated Gerald Goring to applaud his antagonist. And while she swelled the score by the most startling strokes, Edgar crept quietly after her with his judicious and careful play—doing wonderful things with his arms behind his back, in the easiest manner. ‘I throw up the sponge,’ cried Gerald, after struggling feebly against his fate. ‘Lina, dearest, forgive me for my candour, but you are playing almost as wretchedly as I. We are both out of it. You two young gladiators had better finish the game by playing against each other up to a hundred, while Lina and I look on and applaud you. I like to see youth energetic, even if its energies are misdirected.’ He seated himself languidly on the divan which commanded the best view of the table. Lina sat by his side, her white hands moving with an almost rhythmical regularity as she knitted a soft woollen comforter for one of her numerous pensioners.