yours.” “Love set,” called the scorer; and as Betty looked at the supple, muscular figure of Nat Granton while the players exchanged courts, her fears almost overcame her resolve. “My heart is thumping against my very boot-heels, Dolly,” she confided to her friend. “It’s no sort of use.” “Are you going to give up?” demanded Dora curiously, and perhaps a little tauntingly. “Give up!” cried Mistress Mork stoutly. “Do I ever give up? I’ll die first! But I do wish he wouldn’t get so many love games! It’s dreadfully discouraging.” Granton was, in truth, having everything his own way. Howard, although a good player, had somehow lost his coolness, and[120] was soon demoralized by a peculiar short, cutting service, of which his opponent had complete mastery, and which he was unable to return. His play became wild and uneven, and the contest was quickly decided against him. [120] The master of ceremonies came forward with the announcement that the prize racquet belonged to Mr. Nathaniel Granton, but that, according to the provisions of the tournament, any person had now a right to challenge the winner to play for the prize, by the best two games in three. There was a rustle, and then a pause, as many eyes were turned toward George Snow, who had won in the Newport games the summer before. But that gentleman sat quiet in his place, a smile of amusement stealing over his comely features as Dora said, in the most tragic of whispers,— “Oh, Betty, how can you?” But Betty, her head thrown a trifle back, and the color flaming hotly into her face, rose with a charming mixture of dignity and shyness, and walked, before them all, straight up to the judges. “I challenge the winner to a match,” she said, steadily enough, although she confided to Dora afterward that she felt as if every[121] word had to be dragged out by main force. “I should like five minutes to change my dress.” [121] Granton uttered a low, sharp whistle, and doffed his cap. “All right,” the master of ceremonies returned. “Be as quick as you can.”
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