“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val considered. “I shall only ask one Admaston girl; we’ve too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and this Olga person, and Lucilla and I—Flossie won’t play if anybody very good is there. That’s four, and then you and Owen and Mr. Clover—and we could have Captain Cuscaden. I’ll talk to Lucilla about it, if you like, Adrian.”
“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, really, that I suggested it,” Adrian explained.
His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern stamped upon the leather arm of his chair, and he contemplated it earnestly with his head upon one side, even murmuring a sub-audible—“One—two—three—and a corner”—before clearing his throat.
“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the idea that I’m wildly keen on this tennis stunt for my own amusement. In fact, I may say I’ve been a bit off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordinarily good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, in a way. But I thought you girls might like to know Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice friend for you to have, you know.”
There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of Adrian’s philanthropic suggestions that might have been partly accountable for the tolerance with which his sister received them.
Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with a certain hint of apology:
“We’ve spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember what a dear little boy he was?”
Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome little boy Adrian had been, but this recollection, as so many others connected with the house of Morchard, he did not insist upon.
“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, but I hope she’s a nice girl. You know how very particular Father is, and I think he’s especially sensitive where Adrian is concerned.”
“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined to take Adrian’s affairs too seriously,” Quentillian suggested, with great moderation. “Adrian, after all, is very young, isn’t he, both in years and in character, in spite of his soldiering?”