"If Aliette hadn't given up the game to do war-work, and if I hadn't got cut over by that bomb, we might have done some good together in the club doubles," said Mollie Fullerford.

"Well, you're both of you too hot for me," protested Wilberforce.

He balanced a cup of tea on his white-flanneled leg, and surveyed his companion admiringly. They were sitting in the sloped veranda of the clubhouse at Queen's. Below them, on the oval of green turf between the red West Kensington houses, a dozen marked courts hummed with the ping of ball against racket-face, with the swish of running skirts and the voices of the players scoring--"love fifteen," "fifteen all," "fifteen thirty."

"Oh, well played!" ejaculated the girl. Aliette, practising with Mrs. Needham on No. 2 court, had just banged a forehand drive down the side-line. "She's getting it back. Don't you think so, Jimmy?"

Mollie spoke the last word with some hesitation; they had only just got to the point of calling each other by their Christian names.

"Rather," agreed her companion, whose interest in Brunton's wife was of the vaguest, but who knew that he must at least simulate it--because, to Mollie, Aliette represented a good deal more than the average sister.

James Wilberforce did not possess a very emotional personality. He was not at all the sort of person to be swept off his feet by any woman. Marriage being "indicated," alike by parental desires, personal tastes, and a growing income, he had cast about for a possible mate; found her by accident; and was now "making the running" in the approved manner.

So far, the "running" had been rapid enough. Nevertheless, Sir Peter Wilberforce's son and heir already understood that this calm young creature of the broad forehead and the violet eyes would not yield herself without a struggle. "Takes life rather seriously, does Mollie," he thought; and liked her none the less for that.

"Does Mr. Cavendish play?" she asked casually. "If so, you ought to bring him one afternoon."

"He used to. But since he took to golf, 'patters' has lost its attraction."

"Rotten game, golf," said Mollie. "Takes too long. I believe in getting one's exercise over quickly."

They discussed the point for a second or two; and then veered, like most people in their position, to the personal. Aliette, looking up at them as she changed courts, knew a quick flash of envy. For those two, love would run its legitimate course; whereas for her---- She put thought away, and concentrated on the game.

"Two five, I lead," announced Mrs. Needham--a hard-featured, soft-hearted woman with a mop of unruly black hair, an eye like a hawk, and the hands of a mechanic. "Why don't you give up that overhand service?"

"It'll come back in time."

Aliette went to her own base-line, and took two balls from the boy. Mrs. Needham crouched in her favorite position on the other side of the net. Aliette tossed up a ball, swung up her racket, served.

The service, railroading down the center-chalk, defeated Mrs. Needham. The server crossed to the left-hand court; stood to serve--and saw Ronnie.

For a fraction of a second they looked at each other through the high side-netting. He plucked off his soft hat, and stood watching. Aliette served; faulted; faulted again.

"Fifteen all," announced Mrs. Needham.

And suddenly, Aliette's game came back to her. Once more her first service struck chalk from the center-line. But this time Mrs. Needham got back a swingeing shot. Aliette ran--back-handed--flew to the net, killed the return.

"Thirty fifteen," she announced.

She knew, as she crossed, that Ronnie was still watching; that she must not look at him; that if she looked at him she would double-fault again; that she mustn't double-fault; that she must win.

But now Mrs. Needham was all out for the set. Aliette's service came back like white lightning down the side-line. She struck--ran for the net--guessed Mrs. Needham's lob-stroke--got back to it--slammed it across the court--got to the net again--won her point after a tremendous rally.

"Forty fifteen," announced Aliette; and abruptly, preparing to serve, she knew that Ronnie was no longer watching. Concentration failed her: the game didn't seem to matter: the sooner she lost the game, the sooner she would be able to talk with him.