"I—I'm so bad," stammered Muriel. "I've hardly played this year. I shall spoil your game."
"If I had thought that you played well," remarked Delia imperturbably, "do you think that I should have chosen you as a handicap for Godfrey?"
After that, there could be no escape. Godfrey returned, followed by the obliging Dennis. Delia stood up and flung off her jacket.
Muriel felt a little sick. These things simply did not happen. If only she could be a success. If only she could by some miracle play brilliantly. She tried to picture the delight on her mother's face. In a dream she rose, nervously fingering her racket.
"Muriel!" came Connie's hoarse whisper. "Your safety-pin's showing at the back!"
She clutched at her belt. "Excuse me," she murmured.
"Toss for courts, please," commanded Delia, ignoring her.
"Excuse me," she repeated, measuring the distance between the steps and the cloak-room door.
"The sun ought to be fairly well behind the roof," said Delia. "Rough."
"Smooth it is. You'll have to face the sun," cried Godfrey.