pleased; it shows what a Frenchman can do when he does take up a
game.

But French honour demands revenge. He forgets his shoe, he forgets
his game. He gathers together all the balls that he can find; his
balls, your balls, anybody's balls that happen to be handy. And then
commences the return match. At this point it is best to crouch down
under shelter of the net. Most of the players round about adopt this
plan; the more timid make for the club-house, and, finding themselves
there, order coffee and light up cigarettes. After a while both
players appear to be satisfied. The other players then gather round
to claim their balls. This makes a good game by itself. The object
is to get as many balls as you can, your own and other people's--for
preference other people's--and run off with them round the courts,
followed by whooping claimants.

In the course of half-an-hour or so, when everybody is dead beat, the
game--the original game--is resumed. You demand the score; your
partner promptly says it is "forty-fifteen." Both your opponents
rush up to the net, and apparently there is going to be a duel. It
is only a friendly altercation; they very much doubt its being
"forty-fifteen." "Fifteen-forty" they could believe; they suggest it
as a compromise. The discussion is concluded by calling it deuce.
As it is rare for a game to proceed without some such incident
occurring in the middle of it, the score generally is deuce. This
avoids heart-burning; nobody wins a set and nobody loses. The one
game generally suffices for the afternoon.

To the earnest player, it is also confusing to miss your partner
occasionally--to turn round and find that he is talking to a man.