“Oh, that doesn’t matter, though you aren’t exactly at your best, I must say.” “No, I know; as a matter of fact, I’ve rather a headache.” “My dear, why didn’t you tell me?” exclaimed Evelyn. “Well, it wasn’t much, and I thought perhaps a set would drive it away, but it hasn’t,” answered Celia. “Then we certainly won’t go on.” The two came together at the net collecting the balls and Evelyn looked at her friend with concern. “Nothing the matter, is there?” she asked. “No, I don’t think so,” replied Celia doubtfully. “If I were you, I think I should go and lie down for a bit before dinner,” said Evelyn; “you haven’t been quite up to the mark for the last day or two.” “So obvious as all that?” inquired Celia, and it seemed as if the question was not asked in a wholly idle spirit. “Not obvious to any eyes but mine, darling,” replied Evelyn; “at least I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, go and have a rest now; you’ll be catching cold otherwise.” “It might be just as well,” agreed Celia, “though I’m all right; you needn’t be alarmed.” “I’m not, only you are such a goose sometimes.” Evelyn put her arm affectionately round her friend’s waist as she spoke; she was in reality a few months the younger of the two, but in all the years of their friendship the leadership had been freely surrendered to her. Left to herself, she sat down on the bench beside the court and, flinging one arm carelessly over the back, after a few moments took up the book which she had laid down before the game. Thus engaged, she failed to see a young man come lifelessly along the path from round the back of the house: he saw her, however, at once, and pleasure showed openly in his face as he struck across the grass towards the bench. His slightly drooping shoulders and rather pale cheeks made him look older than his real age which was just over thirty-one; his eyes showed bright and even penetrating behind his pince-nez, but had a tired look in them which his pleasure had momentarily displaced, and his dark lounge suit, neat but by no means new, looked a little out of the picture. Evelyn did not hear him until he was quite close, and then she looked suddenly up and smiled to see him. “Well, this is a bit of luck, isn’t it?” he said, dropping naturally on to the other end of the bench and surveying her with an air which plainly showed that he meant what he said. “It entirely depends on what you call luck,” she answered lightly. “Personally I was not complaining before; it’s a good book. Ever read it?” She held it up. “Yes, ages ago,” he answered; “that is, not yet, but I will if you like, though I haven’t a moment. But hang it all, I don’t feel literary and I hope you don’t. Where’s Celia?” “Gone in with a headache.” “Oh, dear; too bad on a day like this. One of the most perfect we’ve had this year, isn’t it? And so useless—until this very minute, that is.” “Useless, why? You don’t look over well yourself, my friend, now that I come to look at you.”