Soon the match began—and went superbly. To quote Mr. Hammond, it was “the greatest ever since the Persians played polo, by Jove!” Upon the vivid green of the field went the teams, playing a hard-galloping, hard-hitting game, in which Phil particularly distinguished himself. He rode the brown pony, and his sleeves were rolled up, his head was bare, despite the heavy sticks that described circles about him, his hair flew in the wind like a young Indian’s. Now his orders rang out sharp and clear—“Take the ball!” or “Back-hander there!” or “Ride the man and leave the ball!” And his mount sped up and down; his square-headed stick did skilful work.
“It’s an education to watch him,” declared Sue enthusiastically, as a rousing bravo from a group of onlooking men went up, for Phil had just dashed in, changed places with Number Three and made a brilliant stroke.
Genevieve did not answer. She was talking to a tall man with a face the approximate shade of Larry’s. “May I present Mr. Valentine?” she asked presently, with some affectation, “—late of the English Army, you know.”
Sue bowed.
“Churmed,” observed Mr. Valentine, in what was to Sue an entirely new British mode of pronunciation.
At the end of the first period Phil came over to the wagon a second time and chatted with Genevieve, who was looking particularly handsome in a mauve linen and a tailored hat—so handsome that Sue, dressed in less striking colours, seemed white and tired in comparison. Again a group was gathered at Genevieve’s side of the wagon, but Sue, more quiet than was her wont, had no smiles for them. She looked away between the paper goal-posts that, painted in wide cream-and-blue bands, loomed up near by like giant sticks of candy.
“This afternoon he’ll motor”—it was Mr. St. Ives who was talking; he was standing beside Phil. “To-morrow afternoon he’ll motor. The next afternoon he’ll go out in his car.” Then he made a wry face and reached over the back of the seat to seize Sue’s fingers and squeeze them gratefully under a pretext of shaking hands.
“Will you go this afternoon, Miss Unger?” asked Phil. “My ten minutes are nearly up, aren’t they, Sue?”
“Sue’s only got her locket,” said Miss Unger with a lazy smile.
“Well, what’s the time by your locket, Sue?” demanded Mr. St. Ives, and reached for it.