met them at various houses, but they had never shone conspicuously.  They had played an earnest, unobtrusive game, and generally seemed glad when it was over.  Mr. Chase was not of this sort.  His service was bottled lightning.  His returns behaved like jumping crackers.  He won the first game in precisely six strokes.  He served.  Only once did I take the service with the full face of the racquet, and then I seemed to be stopping a bullet.  I returned it into the net.  The last of the series struck the wooden edge of my racquet, and soared over the back net into the shrubbery, after the manner of a snick to long slip off a fast bowler.

“Game,” said Mr. Chase, “we’ll look for that afterwards.”

I felt a worm and no man.  Phyllis, I thought, would probably judge my entire character from this exhibition.  A man, she would reflect, who could be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not be good for much in any department of life.  She would compare me instinctively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliance with my own inefficiency.  Somehow the massacre was beginning to have a bad effect on my character.  All my self-respect was ebbing.  A little more of this, and I should become crushed,—­a mere human jelly.  It was my turn to serve.  Service is my strong point at tennis.  I am inaccurate, but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayable shot.  One or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and I might be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect.

I opened with a couple of faults.  The sight of Phyllis, sitting calm and cool in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me.  I served another fault.  And yet another.

“Here, I say, Garnet,” observed Mr. Chase plaintively, “do put me out of this hideous suspense.  I’m becoming a mere bundle of quivering ganglions.”

I loathe facetiousness in moments of stress.

I frowned austerely, made no reply, and served another fault, my fifth.

Matters had reached a crisis.  Even if I had to lob it underhand, I must send the ball over the net with the next stroke.

I restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigour which had marked my previous efforts.  The ball flew in a slow semicircle, and pitched inside the correct court.  At least, I told myself, I had not served a fault.

What happened then I cannot exactly say.  I saw my opponent spring forward like a panther and whirl his racquet.  The next moment the back net was shaking violently, and the ball was rolling swiftly along the ground on a return journey to the other court.

“Love-forty,” said Mr. Chase.  “Phyllis!”

“Yes?”

“That was the Tilden Slosh.”

“I thought it must be,” said Phyllis.

In the third game I managed to score fifteen.  By the merest chance I returned one of his red-hot serves, and—­probably through surprise—­he failed to send it back again.