The evening held Roddy clasped within its beauty and mystery: he was identified with its secret.
‘Oh, Roddy, I love you! I’ve always loved you.’
Oh, the torment of loving!
But soon the way would open without check and lead to the happy ending. Surely it had started to open already.
The pictures came before her.
Roddy playing tennis,—playing a characteristic twisty game that irritated his opponents, and made him laugh to himself as he ran and leapt. His eyes forgot to guard themselves and be secret: they were clear yellow-brown jewels. She was his partner, and with solemn fervour she had tried to play as she had never played before, for his sake, to win his admiration. But he was not the sort of partner who said: “Well played!” or “Hard lines.” He watched her strokes and looked amused, but was silent even when she earned him victory after victory.
Afterwards she said:
‘Oh, Roddy, I love tennis. Don’t you?’
He answered indifferently:
‘Sometimes,—when they let me do as I like; when I’m not expected to play what they call properly. One of my lady opponents once told me I played a most unsporting game. “My intelligence, however corrupt, is worth all your muscle”—was what I did not just then think of saying to her. She was in a temper, that lady.’