“If you had not been so perverse, shutting yourself up, refusing to come to us in London, and living the life of a nun, these dreadful ideas would never have occurred to people,” panted Mrs. Mayhew breathlessly. “It was your own fault entirely, your own fault,” she concluded emphatically, as they came within earshot of Geoffrey, who was waiting for them at the edge of the lawn.
The Monkswood people played tennis all the afternoon with great zeal and spirit: Alice and Mary, Reginald and Geoffrey, all clad in orthodox white flannel apparel, had had some capital games; Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew, less young and active, having settled down after the first half hour into the rôle of spectators, under the shade of a wide-spreading horse-chestnut, where claret-cup and tea awaited the thirsty. At length, breathless and hot, Reginald and Geoffrey, who had been playing a match, came over, and, throwing themselves at full length on the grass, said: “For goodness’ sake, give us something to drink! Send round the claret-cup!”
“So you were beaten, Geoffrey? Poor Geoffrey,” observed Alice compassionately, as she handed him a bumper of claret and soda-water.
“I haven’t half a fair chance with him,” he replied with a deprecating nod towards his victor; “he has a tremendous pull over me—he is such an A 1 racket-player; spent hours in the racket-court every day in India.”
“No, no, merely to keep myself from going to sleep of an afternoon. I’m only a very moderate player, indeed,” expostulated Reginald modestly.
“Perhaps you will say that you are a very moderate cricketer too?” said Geoffrey, with an air of calm judicial severity.
“Nothing to boast about, certainly.”
“Well, I’ll do the boasting for you; and that reminds me that I met the curate in the village this morning.”
“No very novel or startling sight. Après?”
“He is coming up here this afternoon to ask you to play in the local cricket-match on Monday, also to wait on you and pay you the visit of ceremony.”