The Monkswood people played tennis all the afternoon with great zeal and spirit: Alice and Mary, Reginald and Geoffrey, all clad in orthodox white flannel apparel, had had some capital games; Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew, less young and active, having settled down after the first half hour into the _rôle_ of spectators, under the shade of a wide-spreading horse-chestnut, where claret-cup and tea awaited the thirsty. At length, breathless and hot, Reginald and Geoffrey, who had been playing a match, came over, and, throwing themselves at full length on the grass, said: “For goodness’ sake, give us something to drink! Send round the claret-cup!” “So you were beaten, Geoffrey? _Poor_ Geoffrey,” observed Alice compassionately, as she handed him a bumper of claret and soda-water. “I haven’t half a fair chance with him,” he replied with a deprecating nod towards his victor; “he has a tremendous pull over me--he is such an A 1 racket-player; spent hours in the racket-court every day in India.” “No, no, merely to keep myself from going to sleep of an afternoon. I’m only a very moderate player, indeed,” expostulated Reginald modestly. “Perhaps you will say that you are a very moderate cricketer too?” said Geoffrey, with an air of calm judicial severity. “Nothing to boast about, certainly.” “Well, I’ll do the boasting for you; and that reminds me that I met the curate in the village this morning.” “No very novel or startling sight. _Après?_” “He is coming up here this afternoon to ask you to play in the local cricket-match on Monday, also to wait on you and pay you the visit of ceremony.” Reginald, who had been reposing at full length, gazing up speculatively among the wide broad-leaved branches, now turned suddenly on his elbow and brought himself _vis-à-vis_ to Geoffrey with a stare of profound incredulity in his handsome dark eyes. “The Phœnix Club against the world! The curate is a cricket-maniac of the first water. He has let me in for it--I’m a Phœnix,” concluded Geoffrey in an aggrieved tone. “I only trust we shall have an appreciative audience next Monday.” “I hope you impressed upon the curate that there was not the smallest probability of my taking part in the match,” said Reginald imperiously. “_Au contraire_; on the principle of the fox who has lost his tail, I informed him that you were well known at Lord’s and elsewhere as one of the best bowlers in the Service, and that he had only to enlist you among the eleven to ensure a signal victory; consequently he will take _no_ refusal.” “But I do not intend to play,” remarked Reginald firmly. “You forget that I have a stiff arm. My cricketing days are over; for the future, as far as the noble game is concerned, I intend to live on my reputation.” “Your arm is as well as ever,” returned Geoffrey with calm conviction; “I would be very sorry to stand a buffet from it. _That_ excuse shan’t serve you--and, by the same token, here’s the holy man coming up the avenue in a carriage and pair.”