highway by a high privet hedge. The tennis courts seemed to be the
center of interest and in a corner of the terrace which faced the bay
were some people taking tea and watching a match of singles between
Reggie Armistead and their hostess. The chauffeur took the suit case
to the butler and Olga Tcherny led the way to the tea table where
Phyllis Van Vorst was pouring tea. Beside her sat a tall handsome
woman with a hard mouth, dressed in white linen and a picture hat, who
ogled him tentatively through a lorgnon during the moment of
introduction before permitting her face to relax into a smile of
welcome.

"So glad," she purred at last, extending a long slim hand in Markham's
direction. "Phyllis, do give Mr. Markham some tea."

"How d'ye do, Mr. Markham," chortled Miss Van Vorst. "I'm afraid
you'll have to put up with the Philistines for a while. Hermia's
beating Reggie Armistead at tennis, and it's as much as one's life is
worth to interrupt."

"That's no joke," said Archie Westcott, who was watching the game.
"Some tennis, that. They're one set all and Hermia just broke through
Reggie's service. That makes it five four."

Markham, teacup in hand, followed the Countess to the balustrade and
watched. One would never have supposed from the way she played that
this girl had been up since dawn and suffered an accident which had
temporarily incapacitated her. Youth was triumphant. Vigor,
suppleness and grace marked every movement, the smashing overhand
service, the cat-like spring to the net, the quick recovery, the long
free swing of the volley from the back-court, all of which showed form