He was playing with an enthusiasm which surprised every one who was acquainted with his form, and no one more than his antagonist and himself. Glenister was his antagonist--a brilliant man, not perhaps quite so brilliant as he believed himself to be, but still as far above the average in this respect as the sapphire excels the lapis lazuli. He was a man of resource and imagination, and these qualities often stood him in good stead; but it was to his brilliancy he trusted to win his games for him. Priscilla heard the remarks that were being made by competent critics sitting just behind her; and knowing what Glenister’s play was, and seeing what Wingfield’s was, she appreciated the accuracy of the criticisms. “Glenny as usual underrated his man,” some one remarked. “That was how he lost the first two.” “He could beat half a dozen Wingfields any day,” was the counter. “How the mischief could he tell that Wingfield was going to play as he is now? How the----hallo! Did you see that?” “No, what was it? (In a whisper) Confound that hat! What was it?” “My aunt! Wingfield played the ball over his shoulder from the line, and placed it too.” “Luck!” “I suppose so. No one could have a ghost of a chance of doing more than getting it over. Is that Wingfield’s third?” “His third. He won the first and Glenister pulled off the second. Now we’ll see what Glenny’s service is worth?” And they did. They saw that its brilliancy was simply thrown away upon Wingfield. He declined to be intimidated by it. He made an attempt to return every ball, and succeeded in getting the third over; with the first and second that were served to him Glenister made fifteen and thirty. But he seemed so greatly surprised by Wingfield’s success with the third as to be quite satisfied to send it back over the net right opposite to where Wingfield was standing. Wingfield took a long aim, and Glenister, watching his eye, ran to the extreme right of the line to meet the ball; but Wingfield changed his mind and sent it to the extreme left, making his first score. The next service no human being could have returned. Forty--fifteen. The next was an easy one, and there was some splendid play before Glenister got a downward smash which he planted obliquely not two feet from the net on the left side and got his game. 2--3. “Getting into his form, hey?” said one of the critics behind Priscilla. “It’s the way with all of them; but Wingfield takes it out of him, all the same,” was the reply. “He does, by George! I didn’t think that Wingfield had it in him; he always seemed to me a lazy sort of beggar--doesn’t care whether he wins or loses--doesn’t seem to know which he does. His partners in the doubles bless him unawares. That was a good serve. My aunt, it was a good serve! He’s working. Has he something on the game, do you suppose?”