Madame stood before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board.

In the center of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated weeklies.
"Do you play chess, Monsieur ?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.
"I do not." "Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done." Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow.

He followed every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert nails.

He did not learn the game so quickly as might be.

He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.
"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing to you ?" "To me ?" said Maurice.