There was no
sound save the bounding of the ball against the racquets, and the thud
of rubber soles on the hard ground. Then--a sudden twirl of a supple
wrist, and--
"Deuce!" cried the girl, triumphantly brandishing her racquet in the
air.
The man on the other side of the net laughed as he gathered up the
balls for a new serve.
Back and forth, back and forth, once more,--close to the net, away back
to the line, now to the right, now to the left,--and then--
"Ad out, I am beating you, David," warned the girl, leaping lightly
into the air to catch the ball he tossed her.
"Here is a beauty," she said, as the ball spun away from her racquet.
The two, white-clad, nimble figures flashed from side to side of the
court. He sprang into the air to meet her ball, and drove it into the
farthest corner, but she caught it with a backward gesture. Still he
was ready for it, cutting it low across the net,--yes, she was there,
she got it,--but the stroke was hard,--and the ball was light.
"Was it good?" she gasped, clasping the racquet in both hands and
tilting dangerously forward on tiptoe to look.
"Good enough,--and your game."
With one accord they ran forward to the net, pausing a second to glance
about enquiringly, and then, one impulse guiding, kissed each other
ecstatically.
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