I saw, and she saw, and I guess any but a blind man could have seen, he’d a date to play tennis with her and had forgotten it. Of course a woman would have scrambled out, had _something_ to offer that made a noise like an excuse; but that poor prune of a man—they’re all alike when a quick lie’s needed—couldn’t think of a thing to say. He just stood between them, looking haunted and stammering out such gems of thought as, "Our game—of course our game—I hadn’t noticed it but there _is_ no wind." She had him; he couldn’t throw her down after he’d made the engagement, and with her there he couldn’t say what he wanted to Esther Maitland. And neither of them helped him; Mrs. Price listened to his flounderings with the little smile, light and cool on her painted lips, and Miss Maitland stood by, not a word out of her. I noticed that Mrs. Price never looked at her, acted as if she wasn’t there, and presently Ferguson, getting desperate, turns to her and says: "How about taking our walk later—after Mrs. Price and I have finished our game?" The girl got red, burning; she started to answer, but Mrs. Price cut in, for the first time addressing her: "Oh, Miss Maitland, that reminds me—I want these letters answered, if you’ll be so kind. Just follow the notes on the edges, and please do it as soon as possible—they’re rather important. They must go out on the evening mail." She handed the letters to the girl and Esther Maitland took them with a murmur. I know that kind of answer—it’s the agreeing response of the wage-earner. It comes soft and polite—it has to—but like the pleasant rippling of the ocean on the beach it’s not the only sound that element can give forth. Ferguson tried to say something; he was mad and mortified and everything else he ought to have been, but she wouldn’t give him a chance. "Come along, Dick," she says, bright and easy, "you’ve kept me waiting which is very rude, but I’m in a good humor and I’ll forgive you. There’s a racket at the court—we were playing there this morning. You can walk with Miss Maitland some other day. I’m afraid she’ll have to attend to _my_ work this afternoon." He got balky, lingered, looked at Miss Maitland, but she turned sharply away and moved toward the balcony. So there was nothing for him to do but to go off with his captor. I couldn’t but look after them, both in beautiful white clothes, both rich, both young, he so tall, she so slim, for all the world like a picture of lovers on the cover of a magazine. Then I switched back to Miss Maitland. She’s come to a halt, right below the window, and, standing there like a graven image, was watching them.