It was after dinner, and through the open French window of the dining-room a clear view was to be had of the tennis court and the players.

A set had just been finished, and young Charles Westmacott was hitting up the balls as high as he could send them in the middle of the ground.

Doctor Walker and Mrs.Westmacott were pacing up and down the lawn, the lady waving her racket as she emphasized her remarks, and the Doctor listening with slanting head and little nods of agreement.
Against the rails at the near end Harold was leaning in his flannels talking to the two sisters, who stood listening to him with their long dark shadows streaming down the lawn behind them.

The girls were dressed alike in dark skirts, with light pink tennis blouses and pink bands on their straw hats, so that as they stood with the soft red of the setting sun tinging their faces, Clara, demure and quiet, Ida, mischievous and daring, it was a group which might have pleased the eye of a more exacting critic than the old sailor.
"Yes, he looks happy, mother," he repeated, with a chuckle.

"It is not so long ago since it was you and I who were standing like that, and I don't remember that we were very unhappy either.