‘We’ll all go with you to the gate!’ cries Betty.
‘I suppose a big traveller like you doesn’t play tennis?’ says Carew diffidently, but with an essence of hope in his tone.
‘Oh, don’t I!’ says Crosby; ‘I’m quite a dab at it, I can tell you! If I were to come down to-morrow afternoon, would there be any chance that any of you would be here to play a game with me?’
He looks at Susan.
‘We’ll all be here!’ cries Betty ecstatically. To have a new element thrown into their daily games seems too enchanting for anything. ‘You will come?’
‘May I?’ says Crosby. Susan has not answered, and now he purposely addresses her.
‘Oh, I hope you will!’ says she cordially. She had been thinking hurriedly if it would be possible to ask him to luncheon—to their early dinner. But with the children and Jane’s attendance! Oh no—a thousand times no! Yet it seems so inhospitable.
‘Thank you, I should very much like to come. It is quite taking pity on an unfortunate bachelor,’ says he. And this being settled, they all in a body prepare to accompany him to the gate. Even little Tom runs up to them, and Bonnie, with uneven steps, hurries as fast as the poor mite can. Susan turns to help him, and Crosby, watching her for a moment, follows her, and, taking the child in his arms, without a word swings him to his shoulder.
At the gate, having bidden them good-bye, and Dom having taken Bonnie on his back for a race home, Crosby looks at Susan.
‘Are you fond of cherries?’ asks he. His face is profoundly grave, but she can see the twinkle in his eyes, and her own give him back a reproachful glance.