“She’s got it!” cried Snow, with great glee, in his excitement calling so loudly that both the players heard him. “She’s all right now. Oh, that’s beautiful!”
Granton tried a couple of swift balls and faulted them both.
“Love; thirty,” called the scorer.
Another cut; again cleverly intercepted; then a fault and an easy, round-hand service.
“Love; game.”
The applause was really quite tremendous.
“They are all against me,” Granton observed to Betty, handing her the balls over the net and laughing rather ruefully. “Public opinion would be positively outraged if you should fail.”
“I’ve no intention of failing, thank you,” she returned, with spirit; and away she swept to her position. “Play!”
Granton was himself on his mettle, yet he did not play his best. He could not fully recover from his surprise at the style of his adversary’s play. The swiftness of her service and returns was so different from what was expected of a girl that he was scarcely on his guard against it up to the very end. He felt the sympathy of the spectators, too, to be against him, and this was not without its influence. He lost the set, and with it, by an unfortunate chance, his good nature.