WITHOUT, THE NIGHT was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Lakesnam
Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at
chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes,
putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked
comment from the whitehaired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after
it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched
out his hand. "Check."
"I should hardly think that he'd come tonight," said his father, with his
hand poised over the board.
"Mate," replied the son.
"That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden and
unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to
live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't
know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the
road are let, they think it doesn't matter."
"Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next
Det er gratis at oprette en konto