July 28th.
　　Kay Strange, dressed in shorts and a canary-coloured woolly, was leaning forward watching the tennis players. It was the semi-final of the St. Loo tournament, men's singles, and Nevile was playing young Merrick, who was regarded as the coming star in the tennis firmament¹. His brilliance² was undeniable - some of his serves quite un-returnable - but he occasionally struck a wild patch, when the older man's experience and court craft won the day.
　　The score was three-all in the final set.
　　Slipping on to a seat next to Kay, Ted³ Latimer observed in a lazy, ironic⁴ voice: "Devoted⁵ wife watches her husband slash⁶ his way to victory!"Kay started.
　　"How you startled me! I didn't know you were there.""I am always there. You should know that by this time."Ted Latimer was twenty-five and extremely good-looking - even though unsympathetic old colonels were wont⁷ to say of him: "Touch of the Dago!"He was dark and beautifully sunburnt and a wonderful dancer.
　　His dark eyes could be very eloquent⁸, and he managed his voice with the assurance of an actor. Kay had known him since she was fifteen. They had oiled and sunned themselves at Juan les Pins, had danced together and played tennis together. They had been not only friends but allies.
　　Young Merrick was serving from the left-hand court. Nevile's return was unplayable, a superb shot to the extreme corner.
　　"Nevile's backhand is good," said Ted. "It's better than his forehand. Merrick's weak on the backhand and Nevile knows it. He's going to pound at it all he knows how."The game ended. "Four-three - Strange leads."He took the next game on his service. Young Merrick was hitting out wildly.
　　"Five-three."
　　"Good for Nevile," said Latimer.

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