he
could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.

"D'you know," said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, "I don't think people
_do_ write good novels now--not as good as they used to, anyhow."

No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her.
Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game,
sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was
half asleep, and said humorously, "A penny for your thoughts, Miss
Allan."

The others looked up. They were glad that he had not spoken to them.
But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, "I was thinking of
my imaginary uncle. Hasn't every one got an imaginary uncle?" she
continued. "I have one--a most delightful old gentleman. He's always
giving me things. Sometimes it's a gold watch; sometimes it's a carriage
and pair; sometimes it's a beautiful little cottage in the New Forest;
sometimes it's a ticket to the place I most want to see."

She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs. Elliot
knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual little
pucker deepened on her brow.

"We're such lucky people," she said, looking at her husband. "We really
have no wants." She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince
herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was
prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance
of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the
chess-board. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of
black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark
blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them.

Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the
storm.

"It was a wonderful sight," he said. "The lightning went right out over
the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can't think
how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and the
great masses of shadow. It's all over now."

He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of
the game.

"And you go back to-morrow?" said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs.
Flushing.

"Yes," she replied.

"And indeed one is not sorry to go back," said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an
air of mournful anxiety, "after all this illness."

"Are you afraid of dyin'?" Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully.

"I think we are all afraid of that," said Mrs. Elliot