They returned home late for lunch, entering sheepishly, and sitting down as far apart as the length of the table would allow.

Charlie fell upon Fisher with merciless promptitude.

“You base defaulter!” he cried.  “I’ll see you march in front next time.  I was never more scandalised in my life than when I realised that you and Molly had done a slope.”

Fisher shrugged the shoulder nearest to him and offered no explanation of his and Molly’s defection.

Charlie kept up a running fire of chaff for some time, to which Fisher, as was his wont, showed himself to be perfectly indifferent.  Lunch over, Molly disappeared.  Charlie saw her go and turned instantly to Fisher.

“Come and have a single on the asphalt court!” he said.  “I haven’t tried it yet.  I want to.”

Fisher was reluctant, but yielded to persuasion.

They went off together, Charlie with an affectionate arm round his friend’s shoulders.

“I am to congratulate, I suppose?” he asked, as they crossed the garden to the tennis-court.

Fisher looked at him gravely, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

“You may, if it gives you any pleasure to do so, my boy,” he said.

“Ah, that’s good!” said Charlie.  “You’re a jolly good fellow, old chap.  You’ll make her awfully happy.”

“I shall do my best,” Fisher said.

Charlie passed instantly to less serious matters, but the critical look did not pass entirely from Fisher’s face.  He seemed to be watching for something, for some card that Charlie did not appear disposed to play.

Throughout the hard set that followed, his vigilance did not relax; but Charlie played with all his customary zest.  Tennis was to him for the time being the only thing worth doing on the face of the earth.  In his enthusiasm he speedily stripped off his coat and rolled his sleeves to the shoulder as if it had been the hottest summer day.

At the end of the set, which Charlie won, a couple of spectators who had come up unseen applauded their energy, and Charlie, swinging round in flushed triumph, raced up for a word with his host and Molly Erie.

“I can’t stuff over a fire all the afternoon,” he said.  “But the light is getting bad, isn’t it?  Fisher and I will have to knock off.  Are you two going for a walk?  We’ll come, too, if you are, eh, Fisher?”

He turned towards Fisher, who had come up, and held out his hand for the other’s racquet.

Molly uttered a sudden startled exclamation.

“Why, Charlie,” she ejaculated, “what have you done to your arm?  What is the matter with it?”

Charlie jumped at her startled tone and tore down his shirt-sleeve hastily.

“An old wound,” he said, with a shame-faced laugh.

She put her gloved hand swiftly on his to stay his operations.

“No, tell me!” she said.  “What is it—­really?  How was it done?”