The set was over, quickly over. Colonel Duperrier’s play had been affected by the collapse of his partner; now, as their opponents strolled off, he laughed deprecatingly, stooping to let the balls run up on to his racquet. He had several pleasant remarks in reserve to brush away Sydney’s discomfiture, but some kind of an explanation from her was needed to unlock them; he did not know how to begin. She did not apologize, and his embarrassment grew. No one could have been sorrier than her for the poor girl – a fine player subject to this deplorable kind of paralysis. He thanked God that he had not yet asked her to play with him in the tournament, and resolved never to do so, yet was filled with a special, protective benignancy for her.

‘Terrible glare,’ said he.

‘There generally is.’

‘I thought particularly bad today …’

‘I didn’t notice,’ she said indifferently, wondering where to go now. Anywhere, she thought, but back to the pavilion after all this.

‘We ought to move off,’ he said, rousing her; ‘they want the court. Well, I vote we take those two on again and get some of our own back. Don’t we?’

Though he continued to admire Miss Warren, he could be no longer surprised that she was not popular in the Hotel. There was a certain dark stare of aloofness … He told himself that she was curiously dammed up: there was certainly something in the girl. Generally speaking, he preferred people who came out easily: she was not his type. He came up abreast with her dutifully as they walked from the court; then his face brightened: he knew he would soon be relieved of her as Mrs Kerr smiled and nodded down at them from the shade of the pavilion. ‘Come on up!’ he said eagerly, and Sydney was forced to precede him.

‘We-ell?’ said Mrs Kerr, as though they had been a pair of victors.

‘The glare is awful,’ said Colonel Duperrier.

‘I expect it is,’ she agreed, and made room for them both. Colonel Duperrier cheered up; soon, in a quiet way that diffused itself across his features and attitude and the expression with which he watched the players below, he was very cheerful indeed. When he had left them, Mrs Kerr asked Sydney to walk with her to the library. ‘Unless,’ she said, ‘you are going to play again.’

To go to the library one turned to the left instead of the right at the top of the footpath; the same procession of chestnut trees arched one over with their boughs. At this hour the road was more frequented: lunch-time had made perceptible its earliest magnetism. Visitors strolled gravely hotelwards; villa residents were proudly distinguished by the possession of dogs. There was no traffic, and a long-legged English child in the middle of the road was able to read as she walked without menace.

‘What a nice man, that Colonel Duperrier!’ said Mrs Kerr.