"Mr. Beauchamp, may I ask you one question?" Her voice was almost infantile in its innocence.
"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. If it be a short one."
"You remember the Canadian Indian song Dr. Sinclair sang at the consulate the evening after we arrived? Was that really Indian?"
"How do you think I know? I never lived among the Indians. It was all Greek to me."
"That's exactly what I thought. It was Greek to me. Mr. Carteret, it's your service. Please play ball."
The consul gave a long, low whistle, shrugged his shoulders, and said to himself:
"So that's where the wind lies. I fancy I might as well let them fight it out."
Sinclair's face crimsoned at her words; then paled a little. His jaw set hard and he returned Carteret's service with such a volley that neither of his opponents, though ordinarily better players than he, had any chance. In a few minutes he announced abruptly:
"Game! Set!"
"Set—all! We must play the rubber. I suppose you are willing to have a deciding set, Dr. Sinclair?"