On a little table by the window grew an orange-tree in a flower-pot, bearing oranges as large as marrow-fat peas; through the half-open window came wasps in and out, the perfume of mignonette and the murmur of distant bees.
He came to the window and looked out.
Outside lay the ruins of a garden bathed in the golden light of summer, the light that
"Speaks wide and loud
From deeps blown clean of cloud,
As though day's heart were proud
And heaven's were glad."
Beyond lay a paddock in whose centre lay the wraith of a tennis lawn; the net hung shrivelled between the tottering poles, and close to the net he saw the forlorn figure of a girl playing what seemed a fantastic game of tennis all alone.
She would hit the ball into the air and strike it back when it fell; if it went over the net she would jump after it.