"Play!" called the vicar's daughter.
Muriel played.
She played with such goodwill that the ball rose into the cloud-flecked sky.
"Forty love," called Dennis, polite but obdurate.
Godfrey Neale, infected perhaps by his partner's impotence, lost the next point.
"Game," announced Dennis. "Neale, look to your laurels."
"Your service, partner." Godfrey smiled his charming smile. "I messed up that last game fearfully."
Had he not seen that it was her fault? She could have kissed his hand for his forbearance. Negotiating carefully, so as not to expose to him at least the shameful pin, Muriel picked up the balls.
She could not decide whether to hold two or three. Which had she generally done at Heathcroft? She could remember nothing. They seemed suddenly to have grown large and slippery, heavier than cannon-balls. Surely it must be bowls that she was playing, and not tennis?
She was losing her nerve. She felt it going, and she could not stop it.