She would have preferred to watch the play on the centre court. It was clear that the Johannesburg man would carry off the championship in the men’s singles; but she gave in to his wish and decided to remain where she was.
Sinclair’s manner was nervous and preoccupied; but the girl did not appear to notice it; she did not want to talk. Her companion smoked cigarettes and stared with a sort of strained attention at the game and jerked out an occasional comment. Presently he remarked apropos of nothing:
“I had a rise yesterday. That was an altogether unexpected stroke of luck.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, turning an interested, unsuspicious face towards him. “I am pleased. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He laughed.
“Too absorbed in our game,” he said, “to think of it. But I’m thinking of it now. It makes a difference.”
“I suppose it does. You’ll be bursting forth into extravagances. Why don’t you keep a car?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I want other things more urgently than that.”
“What things?”
“I’ll tell you to-night,” he said, reddening.