The match began, and though the gambling had been checked a breathless
interest prevailed. Fletcher Hill's play was not well known at Trelevan,
but at the very outset it was evident to the most casual observer that he
was a skilled player. He spoke scarcely at all, and his face was masklike
in its composure, but Dot, watching, knew with that intuition which of
late had begun to grow upon her that he was grimly set upon obtaining
the victory. The knowledge thrilled her with a strange excitement. She
knew that he was in a fashion desirous of proving himself in her eyes,
that he had entered into the contest solely for her.

As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely to please himself.
He took an artistic interest in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of
the game did not seem to enter into his calculation. He played like a
sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly, but never selfishly. It
was impossible to watch him with indifference. Even his failures were
sensational. As Adela had said of him, he was amazing.

Hill's play was absolutely steady. It lacked the vitality of the younger
man's, but it had about it a clockwork species of regularity that Dot
found curiously pleasing to watch. She had not thought that her interest
could be so deeply aroused; before the game was half through she was as
deeply absorbed as anyone present.

It did not take her long to realize that public sympathy was entirely on
Warden's side, and it was that fact more than any other that disposed her
in Fletcher's favour. She saw that he had a hard fight before him, for
Warden led almost from the beginning, though with all his brilliancy he
never drew very far ahead. Fletcher kept a steady pace behind him, and
she knew he would not be easily beaten.