As Amanda slowly raised her racket for the serve, there was a pleased look on her face. She, too, had noticed Billie’s limp and her loss in speed.
“Ready!” she called.
The ball floated over the net lazily. It looked like an easy one, but Billie knew that serve of old. The ball had a tantalizing habit of stopping far short of that part of the court where you expected it.
Billie was ready and returned the ball neatly just over the net. Amanda raced for it, caught it with a clever, backhand stroke, and dropped it over the net. Billie swung at it viciously and sent it sailing over Amanda’s head for her first point.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” called Billie.
Amanda nodded sullenly.
“Fifteen love!” sang Billie, and set herself for the serve.
From that moment the match settled into one of the grimmest contests ever witnessed on the tennis courts of Three Towers Hall.
Each point was contested fiercely. Amanda and Billie were all over the courts at once; they swung at the ball as though it were a personal enemy; they caressed it deftly into incredible shots that left the spectators mute and tingling with admiration.
“I don’t much care who wins,” cried Connie Danvers, dancing wildly on the sidelines. “I don’t care! I don’t care! This is an exhibition worth waiting a hundred years to see. Go it, Billie! Oh boy, what a back hand! Ah—Amanda’s got it.”