Granton was himself on his mettle, yet he did not play his best. He could not fully recover from his surprise at the style of his adversary's play. The swiftness of her service and returns was so different from what was expected of a girl that he was scarcely on his guard against it up to the very end. He felt the sympathy of the spectators, too, to be against him, and this was not without its influence. He lost the set, and with it, by an unfortunate chance, his good nature. "Sets, one all," the scorer announced; and something in the saucy toss of Betty's lovely head, as, flushed and panting, she stood talking with George and Dora, jarred upon her lover's nerves with sudden irritation. An unreasonable madness took possession of him. How much was wounded vanity, it might not be easy to say; but under the circumstances, with all his mates grinning at his failure, it was not at all strange that his feelings were not wholly placid. His play in the third and decisive set became rash and excited. He lost his head a little, and before he fairly knew how it happened the score was called on Betty's service:-- "Games; five, love" "Good!" was George Snow's comment. "I told you she'd beat a love set before she was done.--Oh, keep your head, Bet!" Betty delivered a ball swift as a bullet and just clearing the net. "Fifteen; love." A fault, and then another swift ball, which skimmed like a swallow over the net and struck the ground only to cling to it in a swift roll. "Thirty; love." The next ball was beaten back and forth until Granton dashed it to the ground at Betty's very feet. "Thirty; fifteen." The excitement was at its height. Even those who did not appreciate the finer points of the play caught the interest and somehow understood pretty accurately how matters stood, and were as earnest as the rest. Small-talk was forgotten, heads were craned forward, and all eyes were fixed upon the players. Betty grasped her racquet by the extreme end of its handle, and held the ball as high above her head as she could reach. "Play!" She struck it with all her force. "Forty; fifteen," was the scorer's call; and Nat Granton understood that only one stroke lay between him and defeat by a love set. George Snow deliberately turned away his face. "I never supposed I could be such a consummate fool," he said afterward, "but I positively could not look at your last service, Bet. I felt as if the whole universe were at stake." As for the player, she was fairly pale with excitement; but her head was clear and her hand steady. She paused an instant, poising her racquet. She observed that Granton stood near the middle of his court. With a quick step she moved to the very outer corner of her own and sent a swift ball sharply under her opponent's left hand. "Game; love set," called the scorer. "Sets two to one in favor of Miss Mork."