"Oh, Mr. Morton! I thought we were to play tennis this morning," she cried.
"Right you are!" he assented—with surprising alacrity, Rosalind thought. "Upon my word, I'd forgotten, Miss Polly. Awfully kind of you to look me up. You'll excuse me, Miss Chalmers? Or will you join us at the courts?"
"I think I'll excuse you," said Rosalind, deliberately.
He stared for a brief instant.
"Why, yes; yes—of course. Awfully kind of you, too."
Polly Dawson had him by the arm and was insistently urging him in the direction of the courts. As they passed out of the pavilion Rosalind caught another glimpse of her bracelet. She gritted her teeth.
"Now, let's see just where I stand," she murmured to herself, and began checking off her thoughts on her fingers.
CHAPTER VI
"PALS!"
A dirty gray boat, quite too large for a skiff, was being slowly propelled against the current with the aid of a pair of oars. The man who furnished the power was talking torridly to himself, to the boat, and to the oars, with occasional digressions in which he addressed himself to the river, the waning day, and the Goddess of Luck. He perspired a great deal more than he progressed.