THE sun blazed down on the tennis courts at Tanfield. There were three of them, two under beautiful turf, and the third a green hard court. A high mixed hedge of hornbeam, holly and thorn shut them in. The great mass of the house, except for its high flanking towers, was out of sight.

On the farther grass court Alicia Steyne was finishing a hotly contested set with Rafe Jerningham. The ball skimmed the net and went low and straight past Rafe’s backhand. He ran, reached for it vainly, and came down sprawling. Alicia threw her racket in the air and called in her high, sweet voice, “Game and!”

Rafe got up and saw her laughing at him. She was as little and light as a child, with dark tossed curls and a vivid, wilful face. All her colouring was brown, but the quick blood gave brilliance to lip and cheek. Her teeth were as white as hazel nuts. She came round the net tossing her racket and laughing.

“Pouf! I can always beat you!^” She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. “And for why? Because I play much, much better than you do. And I don’t lose my temper.”

Rafe laughed too. He was as brown as she – medium size, very slim, very good-looking in something of a gypsy way. He had slender black eyebrows with an odd kink in them. The brown-skinned, well-set ears were a little pointed like a faun’s. There was something that was not quite a likeness between him and Alicia Steyne. They had, in fact, the same grandmother, and the same very white teeth. He shewed them as he said,

“But I don’t lose my temper.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even secretly! Most men do when a woman beats them.”

“Not even then.”

She flung her racket down with a sudden impatience.