they were visitors--any device, however mean, to avoid the task of
umpiring for that young man. Provided his opponent did not go to
sleep or get cramp, one game might last all day. Anyone could return
his balls; but, as I have said, to get a ball past him was almost an
impossibility. He invariably won; the other man, after an hour or
so, would get mad and try to lose. It was his only chance of dinner.

It is a pretty sight, generally speaking, a tennis ground abroad.
The women pay more attention to their costumes than do our lady
players. The men are usually in spotless white. The ground is often
charmingly situated, the club-house picturesque; there is always
laughter and merriment. The play may not be so good to watch, but
the picture is delightful. I accompanied a man a little while ago to
his club on the outskirts of Brussels. The ground was bordered by a
wood on one side, and surrounded on the other three by petites
fermes--allotments, as we should call them in England, worked by the
peasants themselves.

It was a glorious spring afternoon. The courts were crowded. The
red earth and the green grass formed a background against which the
women, in their new Parisian toilets, under their bright parasols,
stood out like wondrous bouquets of moving flowers. The whole
atmosphere was a delightful mingling of idle gaiety, flirtation, and
graceful sensuousness. A modern Watteau would have seized upon the
scene with avidity.

Just beyond--separated by the almost invisible wire fencing--a group
of peasants were working in the field. An old woman and a young
girl, with ropes about their shoulders, were drawing a harrow, guided
by a withered old scarecrow of a man. They paused for a moment at