The set in which Clara and the clergyman were partners was the most exciting of the afternoon.  The space on either side of the court was quite filled with spectators.  Some of the older people who had come with the lengthening shadows sat on chairs brought from the kitchens of the adjoining houses.  Among them was Mr. Leeds, his face animated.  Whenever a ball went very high up or very far down the lot, he cried, “Hooray!” Clara was at the net facing the street, when the carriage she had observed in the morning stopped in view, and the two soberly dressed women leaned forward to watch the play.  Clara felt her face burn, and when they cried “game,” she could not remember whether the clergyman and she had won it or lost it.  She was chiefly conscious of her father’s loud “hoorays.”  With the end of the play the carriage was driven on.

Shortly before supper-time that evening Clara went to the drug-store to buy some stamps.  One of the Misses Rockwood was standing by the show-case waiting for the clerk to wrap up a bottle.  Clara noted the scantily trimmed hat and the scuffed gloves.  She nodded in response to Miss Rockwood’s bow.  They had met but once.

“That was a glorious game of tennis you were having this afternoon,” said Miss Rockwood, with a warm smile.  “My sister and I should like to have seen more of it.  You all seemed to be having such a good time.”

“You all—­”

Clara fumbled her change.  “It’s—­it’s good exercise,” she said.  That night she cried herself to sleep.

II

The rector married the younger Miss Rockwood.  To Clara Leeds the match afforded painfully pleasurable feeling.  It was so eminently fitting; and yet it was hard to believe that any man could see anything in Miss Rockwood.  His courtship had been in keeping with the man, dignified and yet bold.  Clara had met them several times together.  She always hurried past.  The rector bowed quietly.  He seemed to say to all the world, “I have chosen me a woman.”  His manner defied gossip; there was none that Clara heard.  This immunity of theirs distilled the more bitterness in her heart because gossip was now at the heels of her and Mr. Copple, following them as chickens do the feed-box.  She knew it from such transmissions as, “But doubtless Mr. Copple has already told you,” or, “You ought to know, if any one does.”

It had been some time apparent to Clara that the minister held her in a different regard from the other members of his congregation.  His talks with her were more personal; his manner was bashfully eager.  He sought to present the congeniality of their minds.  Mr. Copple had a nice taste in poetry, but somehow Clara, in after-reading, skipped those poems that he had read aloud to her.  On several occasions she knew that a declaration was imminent.  She extricated herself with a feeling of unspeakable relief.  It would not be a simple matter to refuse him.