“That will be enough!” cried Kitty, as the last of a dozen balls sailed toward the distant stables.

The tennis-courts were sunken and round them ran a parapet of lawn, crisp and green, with marble benches opposite the posts, generally used as judges’ stands.  Upon one of these Kitty sat down and began to fan herself.  Thomas walked over and sat down beside her.  The slight gesture of her hand had been a command.

It was early morning, before breakfast; still and warm and breathless, a forerunner of a long hot summer day.  A few hundred yards to the south lay the sea, shimmering as it sprawled lazily upon the tawny sands.

The propinquity of a pretty girl and a lonely young man has founded more than one story.

“You’ll be enjoying the game, once you learn it.”

“Do you think I ever will?” asked Thomas.  He bent forward and began tapping the clay with his racket.  How to run away!

Kitty, as she looked down at his head, knew that there were a dozen absurd wishes in her heart, none of which could possibly ever become facts.  He was so different from the self-assertive young men she knew, with their silly flirtations, their inane small-talk, their capacity for Scotch whisky and long hours.  For days she had studied him as through microscopic lenses; his guilelessness was real.  It just simply could not be; her ears had deceived her that memorable foggy night in London.  And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the two men who had talked near her cab.  Who was he?  Not a single corner of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August; and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day, laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely, warily or unconsciously she could not tell which.  It made her heart ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad.  But to-day she was determined to learn which he was.

“What have you done with the romance?”

“I have put it away in the bottom of my trunk.  The seventh rejection convinces me that I am not a story-teller.”

He had a desperate longing to tell her all, then and there.  It was too late.  He would be arrested as a smuggler, turned out of the house as an impostor.

“Don’t give up so easily.  There are still ninety-three other editors waiting to read it.”

“I have my doubts.  Still, it was a pleasant pastime.”  He sat back and stared at the sea.  He must go this day; he must invent some way of leaving.

Then came the Machiavellian way; only, he managed as usual to execute it in his blundering English style.  Without warning he dropped his racket, caught Kitty in his arms tightly and roughly, kissed her cheek, rose, and strode swiftly across the courts, into the villa.  It was done.  He could go now; he knew very well he had to go.