"Certainly, Miss MacAllister."
There was something in his face and voice she had never seen or heard there before. She looked at him curiously—a little anxiously.
They exchanged courts, Sinclair taking the north or exposed end of the lawn, while his opponents had the south end and were sheltered behind the fort.
The consul looked at them for a moment, then seized a racket and joined Sinclair:
"If you young people are bound to be fools, I suppose I might as well jump into it and be a fool, too. It may finish the set so much the quicker."
It was not a long one. Miss MacAllister played well. But her partner, Carteret, usually an expert at tennis, was nervous and playing wretchedly. On the other hand, Sinclair, who ordinarily served well but was weak on the return, completely excelled himself. He drove his balls over the net with a savage strength which made his opponents' efforts to return them entirely hopeless. And on the return, where he was as a rule only moderately skilful, he let nothing pass him. Beauchamp played his usual swift, tricky, cheerful game.
The last game of the set had come. It was Sinclair's service.
"Play ball! ... Fifteen—love!"
He crossed to his left-hand court and lifted his racket. There was a long whine, a rush of wind, and a terrific crash. A slanting black groove was scored across the green almost at Sinclair's feet, and the earth thrown high in the air.
"Down! Down! Everybody down!" yelled the consul.