‘At the first sight, they have changed eyes,’ crowed Juliet, who was doing The Tempest for ‘O’ Level. ‘Oh, Imogen, did you see him look at you? And he keeps on looking. Oh, it’s too unfair. Why, oh, why, aren’t I you?’

Imogen wondered if she had dreamed what had happened. She glanced round to see if some beautiful girl, the real object of Beresford’s attentions, was standing behind her. But there was only a fat woman in a purple trilby and two men.

His game had certainly gone to pieces. He missed several easy shots and every time he changed ends he grinned at her.

‘He’d better stop fooling about,’ said Juliet, ‘or he’s going to lose this set.’

As if by telepathy, Beresford seemed to pull himself together. Crouching like a tiger, he played four games of rampaging brilliance to take the match without dropping a set.

How the crowd — particularly Imogen — thundered their approval. Beresford put on a pale blue blazer and gathered up his four rackets. As he came off court, he stared straight at Imogen. Suddenly she felt frightened, as though the tiger she’d been admiring at the zoo had just escaped from its cage.

‘Let’s go and find Daddy,’ she said.

‘Are you mad?’ said Juliet. ‘Stay put and Beresford’ll know where to find you.’

But Imogen, seeing Beresford pause to satisfy the demands of a group of autograph hunters, had already bolted into the tea tent.

They found their father talking to the Club Secretary.

‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘have some tea.’ And went back to his conversation.

A savage example of the Church Militant, the Reverend Stephen Brocklehurst had one great secular passion — sport. He was now giving the Club Secretary a blow by blow account of why Beresford had played so badly.

‘The boy was over-confident, of course; thought he had the whole thing sewn up.’