ugh many
years to create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by taking
long-meditated moves with their knights, and subsequently discovering
that they have thereby exposed their queen.

Chess is a silent game; and the Countess's chat with Milly is in quite an
under-tone--probably relating to women's matters that it would be
impertinent for us to listen to; so we will leave Camp Villa, and proceed
to Milby Vicarage, where Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests with
whom he has been dining at Mr. Ely's, and is now rather wearying that
reverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk.

Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man of
three-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbourhood he was
regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers and learning, who must make
a considerable sensation in London pulpits and drawing-rooms on his
occasional visit to the metropolis; and by his brother clergy he was
regarded as a discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a
warm discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely said what
he thought himself; he never let either men or women see that he was
laughing at them, and he never gave any one an opportunity of laughing at
_him_. In one thing only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair
down the middle; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, that
style of coiffure was not advantageous to him.

Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely's, was one of his
warmest admirers, and thought he would make an unexceptionable
son-in-law, in spite of his being of no particular 'family'. Mr. Farquhar
was susceptible on the point of 'blood'--his own circulating fluid, which
animated a short and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of
very superior quality.

'By the by,' he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp,
'what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and the
Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening,
Mithith Farquhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in the
neighbourhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, he
believth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith wonderful
ethcapeth; and ath for her--why, he thinkth her perfection, a woman of
motht refined fellingth, and no end of thtuff.'

Mr. Ely smiled. 'Some people would say our friend Barton was not the best
judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him a l