“You are quite an intelligent man, Bruce,” he said, with a sudden whimsicality, “but I don’t think you would ever understand.”
The set of tennis being over, Peggy, flushed and triumphant, rushed into the party in the shade.
“Mr. Petherbridge and I have won—six—three,” she announced. The old gentlemen smiled and murmured their congratulations. She swung to the tea-table some paces away, and plucked Marmaduke by the sleeve, interrupting him in the middle of an argument. He rose politely.
“Come and play.”
“My dear,” he said, “I’m such a duffer at games.”
“Never mind; you’ll learn in time.”
He drew out a grey silk handkerchief as if ready to perspire at the first thought of it. “Tennis makes one so dreadfully hot,” said he.
Peggy tapped the point of her foot irritably, but she laughed as she turned to Lady Bruce.
“What’s the good of being engaged to a man if he can’t play tennis with you?”
“There are other things in life besides tennis, my dear,” replied Lady Bruce.