“So, we’re man-hunting, then, to-night,” said the artist quickly.
“Far from it,” replied Kent, with fervency. “Let’s drop the subject for the time being, won’t you? I’ve had a morning none too pleasant to look back on, and I’ve got an evening coming none too pleasant to look forward to. Therefore, I shall probably give you the licking of your life on the tennis-court.”
“As to the evening,” began Sedgwick, “while I’m—”
“Frank,” cried Kent, “there’s a query trying to dislodge itself from your mind and get put into words. Don’t let it!”
“Why?”
“Because at one single question from you I’ll either bat you over the head with this racket or burst into sobs. It’s a toss-up which.” He threw the implement in the air. “Rough or smooth?” he called.
Kent played as he worked, with concentration and tenacity, backing up technical skill. Against his dogged attack, Sedgwick’s characteristically more brilliant game was unavailing, though the contest was not so uneven but that both were sweating hard as, at the conclusion of the third set, they sought a breathing space on the terraced bank back of the court.
“That’s certainly a good nerve sedative,” said the artist breathing hard; “and not such rotten tennis for two aged relics of better days, like ourselves.”
“Not so bad by any means,” agreed his opponent cheerfully. “If you had stuck to lobbing, I think you’d have had me, in the second set. Wonder how our spectator enjoyed it,” he added, lowering his voice.
“What spectator? There’s no one here, but ourselves.”