"While you were away I have been thinking. James, old man, do you really love this girl?"
James stared. A spasm of pain twisted Peter's face.
"Suppose," he said in a low voice, "she were not all you—we—think she is!"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"Miss Forrester is an angel."
"Yes, yes. Quite so."
"I know what it is," said James, passionately. "You're trying to put me off my stroke. You know that the least thing makes me lose my form."
"No, no!"
"You hope that you can take my mind off the game and make me go to pieces, and then you'll win the match."