"And Mervyn and Edred are both there to-day, are they not? That makes it more exciting."
"Of course it does!" Dolly gave her head a little toss. "Tennis always wants a man or two, and we don't abound in men down here."
"But Edred doesn't play tennis."
"O yes, he does,—when he's out on a holiday. He never has time in London, so of course it's awfully bad play. Mervyn's is first-rate."
"But you don't care for Mervyn more than Edred?" said Isabel, deluding herself with the belief that she was putting these questions to "the child" in so careless a manner as to make no impression.
"Care for Mervyn more than Edred!" repeated "the child," with wide-open blue eyes. "Why, of course I like them both,—immensely. They are Emmeline's brothers."
"And you only like them—just for her sake?" inquired innocent Isabel.
Dolly shook her head. "Well, no,—I like Mervyn for the way he serves at tennis. It is so deliciously baffling. But the best fun of all is to see Edred's face when he misses a ball,—and he always does miss, nine times in ten. He can't laugh, you know, and he always takes everything solemnly. You'd think from the corners of his mouth that the Westminster Tower had tumbled down."
"Ah, it is all right," thought Isabel. "She could not laugh at them if she really cared for either. That is a relief, for certainly they mean nothing." Dolly's blue eyes, watching, read Isabel's conclusion, at least in part; and the rosy lips twitched mischievously.
"Well, just to-day,—just this once," Isabel said aloud, "I'll see to your mending. But not next week."