“I’m resting on the laurels I won last year,” was the light response. “It’s far easier than to risk one’s reputation and defend it.”
“Are you so sure of winning, as it is, Mr. Granton?” asked Betty coolly.
“Sure? Of course not; but I have hopes now, which I shouldn’t indulge if Mr. Snow, with the glory of his victories at Newport last year, were counted in.”
“I wish you success,” she said, with a certain trace of satire in her tone. “Isn’t Mr. Howard playing remarkably well to-day? What a splendid volley? That gives him the game.”
“Sets: two, love,” called the scorer, and Mr. Howard’s victory was saluted with applause, which Mistress Betty took great satisfaction in leading.
“You seem to be greatly pleased at Howard’s good luck,” Granton observed, remembering that when his success had been clapped, just before, Miss Mork had refrained from lending a hand.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” she returned. “I’ve bet him a pair of gloves he wins.”
“What will you bet me I lose?” demanded he, not especially pleased at any sort of understanding between the young lady before him and Howard.
“Anything you like.”
“I should like nothing so much as—”