Her eyes then played tricks on her. Stephen was no longer in polo attire but a suit of shining armor, her pilot's white silk scarf trailing from his helmet as a token of his lady's love. He rode with lance and not mallet, to joust for her hand in marriage.
As quickly as the image came, it went, as someone seated next to her asked her a question.
Barbara agonized. How can I concentrate on a polo match? "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
A dark-skinned Indian sitting to her left, dressed in whites of his native land, repeated, "Do you know the game?"
She had never seen one before, but when the match began she thought it was like hockey, only on horses and grass, not ice.
"I ride, but don't know beans about polo."
"It's a lot like your American football. Players from each side try to hit the wooden ball through their opponent's goal."
She thanked him and knew she should be paying attention to the game, but could only focus on Stephen so that he might as well have been riding alone on the playing field.
Stephen played well, aggressive and yet fair and sportsman-like, which could not be said for most of his teammates who frequently drew the referee's whistle and penalties. He tied the record for the game, scoring three goals. Near the end of the eighth chukker, he helped a teammate to score the final goal that beat the British 8 to 7 and brought every American to their feet.
"It was a good offensive game," the Indian said afterward. "I noticed you cheered most for the tallest Yank. He rode firmly and with fine balance. He must practice riding without stirrups to achieve that. And all his strokes were good, but his offside backhand is quite remarkable." Barbara didn't have a clue as to what that meant, but agreed, and then almost laughed as a thought came to her.
If only he could practice an offside backhand on me! No one carried Stephen off the playing field like a victor, as Barbara thought they should have for setting up the winning play. He waved to her and she waited until he showered and came for her.
"Now, is the rest of the day ours?" he asked in his captain's uniform again, pressing her hands in his as they stood almost alone after the stands emptied and the spectators were all leaving.
"All ours," she said, wishing it were longer.
A year, at least.
"Where should we go, to talk?" he asked.