“Why should I?” said Claude scornfully. “I don’t play tennis. I never had a racket in my hand.”
“Too bad. She used to play very well, though she was only a youngster then.” Gerhardt was regarding his legs in trousers two inches too short for him. “How everything has changed, and yet how verything is still the same! It’s like coming back to places in dreams.”
“They don’t give you much time to dream, I should say!” Claude remarked.
“Fortunately!”
“Explain to the girl that I don’t play, will you? I’ll be down later.”
“As you like.”
Claude stood in the window, watching Gerhardt’s bare head and Mlle. Claire’s green hat and long brown arm go bounding about over the court.
When Gerhardt came to change before tea, he found his fellow officer standing before his bag, which was open, but not unpacked.
“What’s the matter? Feeling shellshock again?”
“Not exactly.” Claude bit his lip. “The fact is, Dave, I don’t feel just comfortable here. Oh, the people are all right! But I’m out of place. I’m going to pull out and get a billet somewhere else, and let you visit your friends in peace. Why should I be here? These people don’t keep a hotel.”
“They very nearly do, from what they’ve been telling me. They’ve had a string of Scotch and English quartered on them. They like it, too,—or have the good manners to pretend they do. Of course, you’ll do as you like, but you’ll hurt their feelings and put me in an awkward position. To be frank, I don’t see how you can go away without being distinctly rude.”
