"It's nothing, Edith—nothing."
"Forty—love," cried Guy Tyrrell.
"The terminology of tennis is at times a little tiresome," thought Mrs. Delarayne.
"You must play in the next game," she said, regarding her daughter a little anxiously.
"Oh, I'm sick of tennis," Cleopatra sighed. "I hate all games."
"You used to like it so!" her mother expostulated.
Then suddenly there came the sound of shrieks from the direction of the lawn, and Guy's voice was heard again: "I say, Denis, old man," it said, "do attend to the game, please; you can flirt with Leonetta later on."
Cleopatra put down her embroidery with a jerk and pressed a hand spasmodically to her brow. "Don't you think it's dreadfully hot here?" she exclaimed.
Mrs. Delarayne frowned. "My dear, you couldn't have a cooler place in all Brineweald. Take some lemonade." Then after a pause during which she made another brief examination of her daughter's looks, she added: "I certainly think you ought to go and lie down; but I do wish they wouldn't shout so."
Then she took up her novel again.