"How're you, Morrison?" said Mr. Sommerville with no enthusiasm, holding out a well-kept old hand for the other to shake.
Arnold stood up, reached under his chair, and pulled out a tennis racquet. "Excuse me, Morrison, won't you, if I run along?" he said. "It's not because you've come. I want a set of tennis before dinner if I can find somebody to play with me. Here, Molly, you've got your tennis shoes on already. Come along."
The little beauty shook her head violently. "No … goodness no! It's too hot. And anyhow, I don't ever want to play again, since I've seen Sylvia's game." She turned to the other girl, breathing quickly. "You go, Sylvia dear. I'll make Mr. Morrison's tea for him."
Sylvia hesitated a barely perceptible instant, until she saw old Mr. Sommerville's eyes fixed speculatively on her. Then she stood up with an instant, cheerful alacrity. "That's awfully good of you, Molly darling! You won't mind, will you, Mr. Morrison!" She nodded brightly to the old gentleman, to the girl who had slipped into her place, to the other man, and was off.
The man she had left looked after her, as she trod with her long, light step beside the young man, and murmured, "Et vera incessu patuit dea."
Molly moved a plate on the table with some vehemence. "I suppose
Sylvia would understand that language."
"She would, my dear Molly, and what's more, she would scorn me for using such a hackneyed quotation." To Mr. Sommerville he added, laughing, "Isn't it the quaintest combination—such radiant girlhood and her absurd book-learning!"
Mr. Sommerville gave his assent to the quaintness by silence, as he rose and prepared to retreat.
"Good-bye, Grandfather," said Molly with enthusiasm.
* * * * *