"That big chap over there," he said. "He's got a nerve, hasn't he?"
"And did you accept?" Pansy asked.
"Of course I did. I couldn't let that sort of cheek pass."
Other people had heard what was happening. An interested crowd collected around the court. For word had gone round that the man who had challenged the English champion was Raoul Le Breton, the French millionaire.
Captain Cameron had not been long on the court before he discovered he had met his equal, if not his superior.
With a long, lithe movement Le Breton was all over the ground, seemingly unhurried, but always there at the right moment, making his opponent's play look like a heated scramble. But Le Breton's serving was his great point; a lightning stroke that gave no hint as to where the ball would land; sometimes it was just over the net; sometimes just within the furthermost limits of the court.
Cameron was beaten; a beating he took with a boyish smile, as he congratulated the winner.
Others crowded round Le Breton, anxious to add their quota to the praise.
When the crowd dispersed Pansy approached him, as he stood cool and dignified, despite the strenuous game.
"You never told me you could play tennis," she remarked.