Part 39 (2/2)

”I don't think it looks well to carry off a prize at one's own show,”

Cedric said candidly.

”I should rather love the Indian bangles,” owned Barbara, glancing enviously at the array of silver trifles that const.i.tuted the prizes.

”You won't get them, my child--not with McAllister as your partner.

You'll see, Lady Essie Cameron will get them, or one of the Nottinghams, if they're in good form.”

”Peter Nottingham is playing with you, Alex,” Barbara informed her.

”That boy!”

”Nottingham is nearly eighteen, let me tell you,” said Cedric in tones of offence, ”and plays an extraordinarily good game of tennis. In fact, he'll be about the best man there probably, which is why I've had to give him to you for a partner. As you've not taken the trouble to practise a single stroke the whole summer, I should advise you to keep out of his way, and let him stand up to the net and take every blessed thing he can get.

”It'll be a nice thing for me,” said Cedric bitterly, ”to have to apologize to Nottingham for making him play with the worst girl there, and that my sister.”

”Cedric,” said his mother gently, ”I'm sure I've seen Alex play very nicely.”

Alex was grateful, but she wished that, like Barbara, she had practised her strokes under Cedric's tuition.

It was characteristic of her that when the occasion for excelling had actually come, she should pa.s.sionately desire to excel, whereas during previous weeks of supine indifference, it had never seemed to her worth while to exert herself in the attainment of proficiency.

After breakfast she went out to the tennis-court, freshly marked and rolled, and wondered if it would be worth while to make Archie send her over some b.a.l.l.s, but Cedric hurried up in a business-like way and ordered everybody off the ground while he instructed the garden boy in the science of putting up a new net.

Alex moved disconsolately away, and tried to tell herself that none of these trivial, useless enthusiasms which they regarded so earnestly were of any real importance.

She wandered down to the chapel and sat there, for the most part pondering over her own infinitesimal chances of success in the coming tournament, and thinking how much she would like to astonish and disconcert Barbara and Cedric by a sudden display of skill.

It was true that she had not practised, and was at no time a strong player, but she had sometimes shown an erratic brilliance in a sudden, back-handed stroke and, like all weak people, she had an irrational belief in sudden and improbable accessions of luck.

Needless to say, this belief was not justified.

Peter Nottingham, a tall, shy boy with a smas.h.i.+ng service and tremendous length of reach, was intent on nothing but victory, and though he muttered politely, ”Not all, 'm sure,” at Alex' preliminary, faltering announcement of her own bad play, the very sense of his keenness made her nervous.

She missed every stroke, gave an aimless dash that just succeeded in stopping a ball that would obviously have been ”out,” and felt her nerve going.

Just as success always led her on to excel, so failure reduced her capabilities to a minimum. Her heart sank.

They lost the first game.

”Will you serve?” enquired Peter Nottingham politely.

”I'd rather you did.”

Alex was infinitely relieved that responsibility should momentarily be off her own shoulders, but young Nottingham's swift service was as swiftly returned by Lady Essie Cameron, an excellent player, and one who had no hesitation in smas.h.i.+ng the ball on to the farthest corner of the court, where Alex stood, obviously nervous and unready.

She failed to reach it, and could have cried with mortification.

Thanks to Nottingham, however, they won the game.

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