“Game!”
Ruth and Hugh shook hands with each other. But Hugh called over: “Say, Ralph, was this game all right? You turned your ankle, didn’t you?”
“Surely I did,” said Ralph. “I was an idiot, but it is your game just the same. I’ll make it up next time, Barbara—see if I don’t!”
“My dear Ruth,” said Miss Sallie, “I cannot permit it. You will be exhausted.”
“Here, Barbara,” said Mollie, “do try to get your breath, and let me fix up your hair.”
“No prinking!” Ralph called out. “This is business, ladies!”
The good old Casino courts never saw a finer tennis battle. Ralph and Bab played as though they had forgotten their talk in the woods that day when they had tea at Mrs. Duffy’s. Ruth and Hugh were foeman worthy of their best steel.
The game stood forty-all, and it was Bab’s serve. Bab’s serves were what made her tennis remarkable. They were as swift and straight and true as a boy’s.
Hugh stood ready waiting. Barbara caught a look in Ruth’s face, on the other side of the net. Her big blue eyes, frank and clear as a baby’s, were glowing with interest, with hope, with ambition! Like a flash the thought of all Ruth had done for them came into Bab’s mind. Did it weaken the force of her drive? Or was it because her mind was distracted? The ball fell just inside the net on her own side.
“Try again, partner mine!” shouted Ralph, “show ’em what you’re made of!”