“You beat anybody?”
“I beat Paisley first and Glenister second.”
“Glenister? But he is one of the best men! You never beat Glenister.”
“Six—two. Poor Glenny never got the better of his surprise when I stole my first game from him. He tried to think that it was a dream; I don’t believe that he has recovered yet. Nairne was my last man. He got a pain in his in’ards when the game stood four—love; and by the advice of an old prescription of the family doctor, he retired into the shade. Poor chap! he played very well in the M.D.s five minutes later. A splendid recovery! I know that there’s nothing like taking a thing in time—especially the advice of the family medico.”
“I can’t understand how you did so well, considering that you have had no practice.”
He was silent. He had picked up his post and was glancing at the covers. She watched him nervously. He read the steamship company’s imprint on each, and then smiled queerly. She fancied that he was smiling at the thought of being once again away from such absurdities of civilization as lawn tennis. But suddenly his smile ceased. He allowed his eyes to stray in the direction that hers had taken a few hours earlier—over the green of the lawns, and the ballooning foliage on the outskirts of the park. He continued so for a long time, siffling an air between his lips, and tapping the large envelopes fitfully on his palm.
She watched him, waiting for what was to come—he was going to say something to her, she felt—something in the way of breaking the news of his departure to her.
She watched him.
Suddenly his soft whistling ceased. He drew a long breath, and smiled still more queerly than before.
At that instant he caught her eye. He gave a little start, saying with something of surprise in his voice: