She was, having slightly twisted her ankle, but she lied sulkily.
"No, of course not."
It seemed to her that he was smiling all over, not only with his mouth, but with his eyes and his glasses and the little brass buttons on his knitted waistcoat. His very shoes twinkled with amusement all over their highly polished toe-caps. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to take the hat from him.
"Oh, no!" he taunted. "No, you don't; that's not fair!"
Elizabeth was standing still watching them, with her hands pressed against her hair. "Thank you," she said, as Lawrence restored her hat to her; but she looked at Joan and smiled.
Joan turned her face away to hide a sudden rush of tears. How ridiculous and childish she was! Fancy a woman of twenty-three wanting to cry over losing the game! They walked on in silence, Joan trying not to limp too obviously, but Elizabeth was observant.
"You're hurt," she said, and stood still. Joan denied it.
"It's nothing at all; I just twisted my ankle a bit." And she limped on.
"Hadn't you better turn back?" suggested Lawrence a little too hopefully. "Look here, Joan, I'll get you a fly."
"I don't want a fly, thank you; I'm all right."