Thomas slammed the ball with a force which carried it far over the wire
backstop.

"You must not drive them so hard, Mr. Webb; at least, not up. Drive
them down. Try it again."

Tennis looked so easy from the sidelines that Thomas believed all he
had to do was to hit the ball whenever he saw it within reach; but
after a few experiments he accepted the fact that every game required a
certain talent, quite as distinct as that needed to sell green neckties
(old stock) when the prevailing fashion was polka-dot blue. How he
loathed Thomas Webb. How he loathed the impulse which had catapulted
him into this mad whirligig! Why had not fate left him in peace; if
not satisfied with his lot, at least resigned? And now must come this
confrontation, the inevitable! No poor rat in a trap could have felt
more harassed. Mentally, he went round and round in circles, but he
could find no exit. There is no file to saw the bars of circumstance.

That the lithe young figure on the other side of the net, here, there,
backward and forward, alert, accurate, bubbling with energy . . .
Once, a mad rollicking impulse seized and urged him to vault the net
and take her in his arms and hold her still for a moment. But he knew.
She was using him as an athlete uses a trainer before a real contest.