"You're not really trying, you're only playing with me," she said.
"It wouldn't be fair for me to pit all my strength against yours, would it now?" he asked.
"Well, do make a game of it. If you go on like this, I could sit down comfortably in the middle of the court and win. You needn't put the balls on my racket. I can stretch an inch or so around without fatal results."
The next game was more strenuous. But, as it went on, Pansy, getting excited, forgot caution. A long stretch and an upward spring to intercept one of her opponent's balls, brought cutting, knife-like pains tearing at her chest.
The racket dropped from her grip. She stood, white and swaying, her hand on her heart.
In a moment he had vaulted the net, and was at her side, his arm about her, concern on his face.
"It's nothing," she gasped.
"It's that accursed bullet," he said, conscience-stricken. "When Edouard extracted it, he warned me you'd feel the effects for some time."
He spoke without thinking, the sight of her suffering making him forget his double rôle.
At the moment Pansy was too full of pain to grasp what he had said.