Our male opponent served. He had what I should call a nasty swift service. The first ball rose very suddenly and took my partner on the side of the head. ("Sorry," she apologised. "It's all right," I said magnanimously.) I returned the next into the net; the third clean bowled my partner; and off the last I was caught in the slips. (_One, love._) "Will you serve?" said Miss--I wish I could remember her surname. Her Christian name was Hope or Charity or something like that; I know, when I heard it, I thought it was just as well. If I might call her Miss Hope for this once? Thank you. "Will you serve?" said Miss Hope. In the right-hand court I use the American service, which means that I never know till the last moment which side of the racquet is going to hit the ball. On this occasion it was a dead heat--that is to say, I got it in between with the wood; and the ball sailed away over beds and beds of the most beautiful flowers. "Oh, is _that_ the American service?" said Miss Hope, much interested. "South American," I explained. "Down in Peru they never use anything else." In the left-hand court I employ the ordinary Hampstead Smash into the bottom of the net. After four Hampstead Smashes and four Peruvian Teasers (_love, two_) I felt that another explanation was called for. "I've got a new racquet I've never used before," I said. "My old one is being pressed; it went to the shop yesterday to have the creases taken out. Don't you find that with a new racquet you--er--exactly." In the third game we not only got the ball over the net but kept it between the white lines on several occasions--though not so often as our opponents (_three, love_); and in the fourth game Miss Hope served gentle lobs, while I, at her request, stood close up to the net and defended myself with my racquet. I warded off the first two shots amidst applause (_thirty, love_), and dodged the next three (_thirty, forty_), but the last one was too quick for me and won the cocoanut with some ease. (_Game. Love, four._) "It's all right, thanks," I said to my partner; "it really doesn't hurt a bit. Now then, let's buck up and play a simply dashing game." Miss Hope excelled herself in that fifth game, but I was still unable to find a length. To be more accurate, I was unable to find a shortness--my long game was admirably strong and lofty. "Are you musical?" said my partner at the end of it. (_Five, love._) She had been very talkative all through. "Come, come," I said impatiently, "you don't want a song at this very moment. Surely you can wait till the end of the set?" "Oh, I was only just wondering." "I quite see your point. You feel that Nature always compensates us in some way, and that as----" "Oh, no!" said Miss Hope in great confusion. "I didn't mean that at all."