It remained, as frequently happens, for a married woman to inflict the first wound.
One afternoon at the end of September Martin was leaving the tennis lawn after a vain effort to play in the failing light on dew-soaked grass. He had stayed behind to collect the balls and was walking slowly with three folded deck-chairs in one hand, while with the other he carried the balls on his racket. Suddenly he became aware of voices and almost ran into Mrs Berrisford and a stranger. He was introduced to Mrs Cartmell.
"You can't very well shake hands," she observed. "We're going in. Suppose I take the balls."
"Oh, please don't bother," said Martin.
But Mrs Cartmell grasped the racket and took it from him without dropping any of the balls.
"Thanks very much," Martin remarked. "Do you play tennis?"
"In a feeble kind of way. I'm out of practice too."
"We'll put that all right," said Mrs Berrisford.
"The court is quite dry, up to tea-time," added Martin eagerly. "The dew is very heavy later on and it gets dark soon, but it's all right if you play early."
Martin's keenness amused Mrs Cartmell. "Of course I should love to play," she said.