Esmé practised untiringly before the event. She had never attended the tournament before other than as a spectator, and the sight of the crowds which gathered each day to view the events shook her nerve. She played badly, and felt rather aggrieved that her partner managed to drag her victoriously through their first set. After their game she sat with him below the stand and reproached him for winning.
“It would be all over now if you hadn’t cribbed half my balls,” she complained.
“But you don’t want to be out of it really?” he said, surprised.
“I do—and I don’t. It makes me jumpy.”
“That’s all right. You’ll get your tail up later. I’m going to win, you know. I’m going to pull this off.”
“You’ve got your work cut out,” she said, and laughed. “You’ll get very little help from me.”
“I only ask your co-operation,” he returned confidently. “Take what you can, and leave the rest to me. I’m out to win. You see, we are coming through together.”
She did see. And with each set they played and won her astonishment deepened. She had always known that he was a good player, but she had not realised the reserve force which he could bring into his game when he wanted it. It was something more than play, she decided, which carried him through; it was sheer determination not to be beaten. They came through the finals with a hard-won victory.
Jim and Rose were present to watch the finish. According to Jim, his sister-in-law played a footling game.
“At least she didn’t hamper her partner,” Rose said.