After Morris had gone, Blynn felt very uncomfortable. He would have given much to be able to slip quietly out and get at his note-taking on Scot’s “Discoverie of Witchcraft”; or to have some member of his “contemporary club” stroll by and take a seat in the carriage. He didn’t know what to say to this strange young person before him; especially after he had witnessed the kind of prattle youth carries on nowadays. (Did he ever talk that way to girls? he wondered. He couldn’t remember—another sign of distance.)
But, Gorgas was true to her word. The remainder of that day was given over to Edwin Morris. After all, tennis was her trade; she was looking on with a craftsman’s eye, catching the meaning of every serve and return.
The first set was a battle. Both men kept to their agreement to wade in and give the small crowd an exhibition. Deuce games were frequent. After 4-3 in favor of Clarke, Morris’ serve evened it to 4-4. By a squeak it went to 5-4—Clarke had slipped to the ground in trying for an easy ball—and Morris took his own serve for the set: 6-4.
Gorgas could hardly contain her joy. She applauded with little, rapid slaps upon her kid gloves and called to Blynn to help with the noise. Her gloves came ripping off so that she could make her allegiance heard.
“Oh, that serve!” she chuckled. “It looks, oh, so easy; but it’s a fooler. He invented it and uses it only when he needs a point. It has hardly a bounce to it; just skims along the grass. Edwin! Edwin!” she talked but forebore calling. “We’re here!” When he glanced slowly over, grinning sheepishly as if he had done something wrong, she tugged at his fraternity brooch and made as if to wave it.
In the second set Morris maintained the lead until 5-4. It looked like both sets and the trophy, but Clarke let loose, as if mad, evened the score and tore through to 7-5 and set.
It still had the appearance of a Morris day. Clarke was evidently winded and worn. He was strangely pale; the good-natured smile was rather fixed; but he stood up gamely for the third and final set.
“You’ve got him, boy,” Gorgas murmured, just loud enough for Blynn. “Steady! Just keep her traveling.... That’s the way! Let him put ’em out!... Make him work! He’s going down! See him breathe!... That’s the way! Play safe!... Whoopee! Did you see that ‘Lawford’?” And so on, straining and pulling with every smack of the ball.
Clarke deliberately gave a game away, evidently to secure a rest. The score stood 4-2 in favor of Morris. They were changing courts, Morris with steady steps, Clarke with a drag. They said a few words as they passed the net. Clarke shook his head and dropped on one knee, ripped off the top lace of his shoe to adjust a white ankle brace. During the next game Clarke barely stirred from one spot on the court; naturally, the score was with Morris at 5-2.
Gorgas stopped her chatter. “Clarke put his ankle out when he slipped,” she told Blynn.