At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Madge jumped up, nearly over-setting the board, and rushed into the front room. It was the four-horse coach from London, which, once a day, passed through Fenmarket on its road to Lincoln. It was not the direct route from London to Lincoln, but the _Defiance_ went this way to accommodate Fenmarket and other small towns. It slackened speed in order to change horses at the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ and as Madge stood at the window, a gentleman on the box-seat looked at her intently as he passed. In another minute he had descended, and was welcomed by the landlord, who stood on the pavement. Clara meanwhile had taken up a book, but before she had read a page, her sister skipped into the parlour again, humming a tune. ‘Let me see—check, you said, but it is not mate.’ She put her elbows on the table, rested her head between her hands, and appeared to contemplate the game profoundly. ‘Now, then, what do you say to that?’ It was really a very lucky move, and Clara, whose thoughts perhaps were elsewhere, was presently most unaccountably defeated. Madge was triumphant. ‘Where are all your deep-laid schemes? Baffled by a poor creature who can hardly put two and two together.’ ‘Perhaps your schemes were better than mine.’ ‘You know they were not. I saw the queen ought to take that bishop, and never bothered myself as to what would follow. Have you not lost your faith in schemes?’ ‘You are very much mistaken if you suppose that, because of one failure, or of twenty failures, I would give up a principle.’ ‘Clara, you are a strange creature. Don’t let us talk any more about chess.’ Madge swept all the pieces with her hand into the box, shut it, closed the board, and put her feet on the fender. ‘You never believe in impulses or in doing a thing just because here and now it appears to be the proper thing to do. Suppose anybody were to make love to you—oh! how I wish somebody would, you dear girl, for nobody deserves it more—’ Madge put her head caressingly on Clara’s shoulder and then raised it again. ‘Suppose, I say, anybody were to make love to you, would you hold off for six months and consider, and consider, and ask yourself whether he had such and such virtues, and whether he could make you happy? Would not that stifle love altogether? Would you not rather obey your first impression and, if you felt you loved him, would you not say “Yes”?’