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.
His subsequent actions were methodical enough; a shower, a thorough rub-down, and then into his workaday clothes.