"Make it doubles," put in Lieutenant Dank, and turned to Nellie.
"Shall we take them on?"
And doubles it was, much to the disgust of Mr. Blithers. He sat
through the nine games, manifesting an interest he was far from
feeling, and then--as dusk fell across the valley--arose expectantly
with the cry of "game and set." He had discoursed freely on the
relative merits of various motor cars, stoutly maintaining that the
one he drove was without question the best in the market (in fact,
there wasn't another "make" that he would have as a gift); the clubs
he belonged to in New York were the only ones that were worth
belonging to (he wouldn't be caught dead in any of the others); his
tailor was the only tailor in the country who knew how to make a
decent looking suit of clothes (the rest of them were "the limit");
the Pomeranian that he had given his daughter was the best dog of its
breed in the world (he was looking at Mrs. King's Pomeranian as he
made the remark); the tennis court at Blitherwood was pronounced by
experts to be the finest they'd, ever seen--and so on and so on,
until the long-drawn-out set was ended.
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