Billie, cool, steady, saw her opportunity. Amanda, red and perspiring, danced around in the back court, expecting a smashing return.
Billie ran backward, caught the ball neatly on the tip of her racket, landed it teasingly, gently, just inside the net.
Amanda made a gallant dash for it, swung for it, and swooped up a handful of sod on her racket.
“Forty-all,” said Billie and added generously: “Well tried, Amanda.”
That was practically the end of the match, so far as Amanda was concerned. At best, a temperamental, erratic player, she was hopeless when mastered by fury. Now she forgot all the skill and artistry of her game, sent smashing shots to Billie that the latter returned with ease.
Billie won that game, making it five-all, and took the next two on points.
Amanda flung down her racket and followed it from the courts without pausing to shake hands with her successful rival.
Those from the sidelines thronged about Billie, showering her with compliments, dwelling on those few moments at the net when she had showed her complete mastery of the game.
“I never saw such marvelous form!”
“But, Billie, what makes you limp so?”