istinct as that needed to sell green neckties
(old stock) when the prevailing fashion was polka-dot blue. How he
loathed Thomas Webb. How he loathed the impulse which had catapulted
him into this mad whirligig! Why had not fate left him in peace; if
not satisfied with his lot, at least resigned? And now must come this
confrontation, the inevitable! No poor rat in a trap could have felt
more harassed. Mentally, he went round and round in circles, but he
could find no exit. There is no file to saw the bars of circumstance.

That the lithe young figure on the other side of the net, here, there,
backward and forward, alert, accurate, bubbling with energy . . .
Once, a mad rollicking impulse seized and urged him to vault the net
and take her in his arms and hold her still for a moment. But he knew.
She was using him as an athlete uses a trainer before a real contest.

There was something more behind his stroke than mere awkwardness. It
was downright savagery. Generally when a man is in anger or despair he
longs to smash things; and these inoffensive tennis-balls were to
Thomas a gift of the gods. Each time one sailed away over the
backstop, it was like the pop of a safety-valve; it averted an
explosion.

"That will be enough!" cried Kitty, as the last of a dozen balls sailed
toward the distant stables.

The tennis-courts were sunken and round them ran a parapet of lawn,
crisp and green, with marble benches opposite the posts, generally used
as judges' stands. Upon one of these Kitty sat down and began to fan
herself. Thomas walked over and sat down beside her. The slight
gesture of her hand had been a command.

It was early morning, before breakfast; still and warm and breathless,
a forerunner of a long hot summer day. A few hundred yards to the
south lay the sea, shimmering as it sprawled lazily upon the tawny
sands.

The propinquity of a pretty girl and a lonely young man has founded
more than one story.

"You'll be enjoying the game, once you learn it."

"Do you think I ever will?" asked Thomas. He bent forward and began
tapping the clay with his racket. How to run away!

Kitty, as she looked down at his head, knew that there were a dozen
absurd wishes in her heart, none of which could possibly ever become
facts. He was so different from the self-assertive young men she knew,
with their silly flirtations, their inane small-talk, their capacity
for Scotch whisky and long hours. For days she ha