“Sets, one all,” the scorer announced; and something in the saucy toss of Betty’s lovely head, as, flushed and panting, she stood talking with George and Dora, jarred upon her lover’s nerves with sudden irritation. An unreasonable madness took possession of him. How much was wounded vanity, it might not be easy to say; but under the circumstances, with all his mates grinning at his failure, it was not at all strange that his feelings were not wholly placid. His play in the third and decisive set became rash and excited. He lost his head a little, and before he fairly knew how it happened the score was called on Betty’s service:—
“Games; five, love”
“Good!” was George Snow’s comment. “I told you she’d beat a love set before she was done.—Oh, keep your head, Bet!”
Betty delivered a ball swift as a bullet and just clearing the net.
“Fifteen; love.”
A fault, and then another swift ball, which skimmed like a swallow over the net and struck the ground only to cling to it in a swift roll.
“Thirty; love.”
The next ball was beaten back and forth until Granton dashed it to the ground at Betty’s very feet.
“Thirty; fifteen.”
The excitement was at its height. Even those who did not appreciate the finer points of the play caught the interest and somehow understood pretty accurately how matters stood, and were as earnest as the rest. Small-talk was forgotten, heads were craned forward, and all eyes were fixed upon the players. Betty grasped her racquet by the extreme end of its handle, and held the ball as high above her head as she could reach.