Griffith Hunter was a typical youth of the topmost round of society. Though conventional and reserved, he possessed at the same time a certain naive charm that made him attractive for his own sake, aside from his position and wealth. A freshman at Harvard, a member of the inner circle of society, a resident of Silvertown, he seemed to Ruth to be everything desirable in a young man.
“If I could only get him to ask me to be his partner in the mixed-doubles,” she thought, “that would make up for losing my other scheme.”
With this end in view she therefore started to talk about tennis. But the young man listened only half-heartedly; his thoughts seemed to have flown in a different direction.
“A remarkably pretty girl!” he observed, as Marjorie’s name was mentioned by someone near him.
Every nerve in Ruth’s body called out in protestation against his remark, but, hiding her jealousy, she replied sweetly,
“Yes, isn’t she? Marj is my best friend—we come from the same town.”
“I’d like to see more of her,” he added, almost as if he were thinking aloud. Then, as he moved towards the steps,
“So sorry I can’t stay for luncheon; but mother’s expecting some friends and requested my presence. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go over now. See you tomorrow, at the meet!”
And Ruth inwardly raged at the fate that always seemed to award her second place.