Last point. Game and set. She made it with savage awkwardness; and turned at the net and stood with lowered racket as he approached. Beneath the simple molasses of her hair the was perspiring a little; “I kept on letting ‘em get my alley,” she explained. “You never bawled me out a single time. What ought I to do, to break myself of that?”
“You ought to run in a cheese-cloth shimmy on hills under a new moon,” Horace told her. “With chained ankles, of course. But a slack chain. No, not the moon; but in a dawn like pipes. Green and gold, and maybe a little pink. Would you risk a little pink?” She watched him with grave curious eyes as he stood before her lean in his flannels and with his sick brilliant face and his wild hair. “No,” he corrected himself again. “On sand. Blanched sand, with dead ripples. Ghosts of dead motion waved into the sand. Do you know how cold the sea can be just before dawn, with a falling tide? like lying in a dead world, upon the dead respirations of the earth. She’s too big to the all at once. Like elephants... How old are you?” Now all at once her eyes became secretive, and she looked away. “Now what?” he demanded. “What did you start to say then?”
“There’s Mr. Mitchell,” she-said. Harry Mitchell had come out, in tight flannels and a white silk shirt and new ornate sport shoes that cost twenty dollars per pair. With a new racket in a patent case and press, standing with his squat legs, and his bald bullet head and his undershot jaw of rotting teeth beside the studied picture of his wife. Presently, when he had been made to drink a cup of tea, he would gather up all the men present and lead them through the house to his bathroom and give them whisky, pouring out a glass and fetching it down to Rachel. He would give you the shirt off his back. He was a cotton speculator and a good one; he was ugly as sin and kindhearted and dogmatic and talkative, and he called Belle “little mother” until she broke him of it. Belle lay yet in her chair; she was watching them as they turned together from the court.
“What was it?” Horace persisted.
“Sir?”
“What you started to say just then.”
“Nothing,” she answered. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Oh, that’s too feminine,” Horace said. “I didn’t expect that of you, after the way you play tennis.” They moved on under the veiled contemplation of Belle’s gaze.
“Feminine?” Then she added: “I hope I can get another set soon. I’m not a bit tired, are you?”
“Yes. Any woman might have said that. But maybe you’re not old enough to be a woman.”
“Horace,” Belle said.
I’m seventeen,” the girl answered. “Miss Belle likes you, don’t she?”
Belle spoke his name again, mellifluously, lazily peremptory. Airs Marders sat now with her slack chins in a raised teacup. The girl turned to him with polite finality. “Thanks for playing with me,” she said. “I’ll be better someday, I hope. We beat ‘em,” she said generally.
“You and the little lady gave ‘em the works, hey, big boy?” Harry Mitchell said, showing his discolored, teeth. His heavy prognathous jaw narrowed delicately down, then nipped abruptly off into pugnacious bewilderment.
“Mr. Benbow did,” the girl corrected in her clear voice, and she took the chair next Belle. “I kept on letting’em get my alley.”
“Horace,” Belle repeated, “your tea is getting cold.”
It had been fetched by the combination gardener-stableman-chauffeur, temporarily impressed and smelling of vulcanized rubber and ammonia. Mrs. Marders removed her chins from her cup. “Horace plays too well,” she said, “really too well. The other men can’t compete with him. You were lucky to have him for a partner, child,”
“Yessum,” the girl agreed. “I guess he won’t risk me again.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Marders rejoined, “Horace enjoyed playing with you. Didn’t you notice it, Belle?”
Belle made no reply. She poured Horace’s tea, and at this moment Belle’s daughter came across the lawn in her crocus-yellow dress. Her eyes were like stars, more soft and melting than any deer’s and she gave Horace a swift shining glance.
“Well, Titania?” he said.
Belle half turned her head, still with the teapot raised, and Harry set his cup on the table and went and knelt on one knee in her path, as if he were cajoling a puppy. The child came up, still watching Horace with her radiant arid melting diffidence, arid permitted her father to embrace her and fondle her with his short, heavy hands. “Daddy’s gal,” Harry said. She submitted to having her prim little dress mussed, pleasurably but a little restively; her eyes flew shining again.
“Don’t muss your dress, sister,” Belle said, and the child evaded her father’s hands with a prim movement “What is it now?” Belle asked. “Why aren’t you playing?”
“Nothing. I just came home.” She came arid stood diffidently beside her mother’s chair.
“Speak to the company,” Belle said. “Don’t you know better than to come where older people are, without speaking to them?” The little girl did so, shyly and faultlessly, greeting them in rotation, and her mother turned and pulled arid patted at her straight soft hair. “Now, do go arid play. Why do you always want to come where grown people are? You’re not interested in what we’re doing.”
“Ah, let her stay, mother,” Harry said. “She wants to watch her daddy and Horace play tennis.”
“Run along, now,” Belle added with a final pat, paying no attention to Harry. “And do keep your dress clean.”
“Yessum,” the child agreed, and she turned obediently, giving Horace another quick shining look. He watched her and saw Rachel stand presently in the kitchen door and speak to her, and she turned and mounted the steps and entered the door which Rachel held open.
“What a beautifully mannered child,” Mrs. Marders said. “How do you do it, Belle?”
“They’re so hard to do anything with,” Belle said. “She has some of her father’s traits. Drink your tea, Harry.”
Harry took his cup from the table and sucked its lukewarm contents into himself noisily and dutifully. “Well, big boy,” he said to Horace, “how about a set? These squirrels think they can beat us,”
“Frankie wants to play again,” Belle said. “Do let the child have the court for a little while.”
““What?” Harry was busy evolving his racket from its intricate and expensive casing. He paused and raised his savage undershot face and his dull kind eyes.
“No, no,” the girl protested quickly, “I’ve had enough. I’d rather look on a while.”
“Don’t be silly,” Belle said. “They can play any time.”
“Sure the little lady can play,” Harry said. “Here, you jelly-beans, how about fixing up a set with the little lady?” He restored his racket, with ostentatious care.
“Please, Mr. Mitchell,” the girl said.
“Don’t mind him,” Belle told her. “He and Horace can play some other time. You children go on and play. He’ll have to make the fourth, anyway.”
The ex-student spoke: “Sure, Mr. Harry, come on. Me and Frankie’ll play you and Joe.”
“You folks go ahead and play a set,” Harry repeated. “I’ve got a little business to talk over with Horace. You all go ahead.” He insisted, overrode their polite protests until they took the court. Then he jerked his head significantly at Horace.