Howard, still in shirt and tie, and looking like no kind of sportsman, was surprisingly deft and agile, retrieving Jean’s best shots effortlessly from the back of the court while Lizzie guarded the net. He played a gentleman’s game, Jean noticed, never crowding his partner or poaching her shots, or winning an easy point by belting the shuttlecock at Margaret, who was the weakest player. But at the same time, he didn’t patronize her by underplaying, making them work instead for every point.

Gretchen had put her feet up on one of the empty chairs and was reading a magazine, occasionally looking up to throw out an encouraging comment, or to adjudicate a disputed line call.

“The vegetable patch is out!”

“What if it lands on a rhubarb leaf that is projecting slightly over the grass?”

“That’s still out.”

“Not fair!”

Every so often Jean would look up, through a mist of sweat, to see Howard laughing at her exertions as he drove her from corner to corner, and she would redouble her determination to win. They took a game each, but before they could play the decider, Lizzie remembered that she was supposed to be home by five, some ten minutes ago, to go and visit her grandparents in Bexleyheath.

“Just one more,” Margaret pleaded with a child’s infinite stamina for pleasure.

“We’ll have to save it for another time,” said Howard as all four shook hands across the net. “But I think a draw the only fair result.” His handshake was brief and businesslike but it sent a jolt through Jean all the same. “You play well,” he said to her. “You must have been practicing.”

“Not since my school days,” she replied. “I’d forgotten how much fun it is. And how exhausting.”

She was aware of her fiery-red face and the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her cotton blouse clung damply to her back. She pushed her sticky hair off her face impatiently with the back of her arm. Up on the patio she could see Gretchen, cool and elegant in primrose yellow, pouring glasses of water for the thirsty players from a crystal jug—another item brought out for guests, no doubt.

“We must have a rematch sometime,” Howard was saying.

She recognized this for a piece of conventional politeness, but Margaret was immediately eager.

“Yes. Tomorrow. After school.”

The two adults laughed, acknowledging the impossibility of a life governed by reckless spontaneity.

“Miss Swinney doesn’t want to come over here again tomorrow just to entertain you!” said Howard, ruffling Margaret’s hair.

“How do you know? You haven’t asked her!”

“Because she has a life of her own to live.”

In fact, Jean could hardly think of anything she would rather do than play badminton with Howard and Margaret.

“But you’re grown-ups. You can do anything you want to.”

“Where on earth did you get the idea that grown-ups can do what they like?” asked her father with an expression of incredulity. “Not from me or your mother, that’s for certain.”