"Want a card for her?" the Honourable Philip inquired with a grin.
"I should like it sent off this moment," Lutchester replied.
The young man took a square, gilt-edged card from a drawer by his side, filled it out at Lutchester's dictation, rang the bell, and dispatched it by special messenger.
"I've got my little buzzer outside," he observed. "We'll make tracks for the club, if you're ready."
The two men played several sets of tennis and afterwards lounged in two wicker chairs, underneath a gigantic plane tree in a corner of the lawn. The place was crowded, and Philip Downing was an excellent showman.
"Washington," he explained, "has never been so divided into opposite camps, and this is almost the only common meeting ground. Every one has to come here, of course. The German Staff play tennis and the Austrians all go in for polo. Here comes Ziduski. He's most fearfully popular with the ladies here—does us a lot of harm, they say. He's a great sticker for etiquette. He used to nod and call me Phil. Now you watch. He'll bow from his waist, as though he had corsets on. As a matter of fact, he's a good sportsman."
Count Ziduski's bow was stiff enough but his intention was obvious. He stopped before the two men, exchanged a somewhat stilted greeting with Philip Downing, and turned to Lutchester.
"I believe," he said, "that I have the honour of addressing Mr.
Lutchester?"
Lutchester rose to his feet.
"That is my name," he admitted.