That plump young person forgot her pique of the morning in an instant when he came up to her with that smiling "been-looking-for-you-everywhere, mighty-glad-to-see-you" cordiality.
"I want you to teach me tennis," he said immediately.
"I'm afraid I can't teach you much," she replied with becoming diffidence, "because I'm not a good enough player myself; but I'll do my best.

We'll have a set right after luncheon; shall we ?" "Fine!" said he.
After luncheon Mr.Westlake and Mr.Cuthbert waylaid him, but he merely thrust his telegram into Mr.Westlake's hands, and hurried off to the tennis grounds with Miss Westlake and Miss Hastings and lanky Bob Tilloughby, who stuttered horribly and blushed when he spoke, and was in deadly seriousness about everything.

Never did a man work so hard at anything as Sam Turner worked at tennis.

He had a keen eye and a dextrous wrist, and he kept the game up to top-notch speed.

Of course he made blunders and became confused in his count and overlooked opportunities, but he covered acres of ground, as Vivian Hastings expressed it, and when, at the end of an hour, they sat down, panting, to rest, young Tilloughby, with painful earnestness, assured him that he had "the mum-mum-makings of a fine tennis player." Sam considered that compliment very thoughtfully, but he was a trifle dubious.