“Tennis! what’s that to such a trip as I propose. Don’t be an idiot, Stacey.”
“It is really not an ordinary tournament,” Milly added, with a desire to make peace between the two. “But, Mr. Van Silver, when do you sail? Perhaps Stacey can go after the tournament.”
“I sail the last of June.”
“Then there’s no use talking,” said Stacey.
“Unless you could join Mr. Van Silver by going over later.”
Stacey shook his head vigorously. He had no desire to be expatriated this summer.
“I comprehend,” said Mr. Van Silver. “The Pier possesses greater attractions than I can offer, but you needn’t try to humbug me into believing that tennis is the magnet which draws you thither. Tell that to the unsophisticated, but strive not to impose on your grandfather. He has been young himself.”
Mrs. Roseveldt came in with quite a party from the supper, and Stacey promptly took his leave.
When Milly confided this to me,—as she did nearly all of her joys and sorrows,—I could not help expressing my sympathy for Stacey.
“Stacey will recover,” she said confidently. “Men are never as constant as we women.” And Milly nodded her head with the gravity of an elderly matron who had experienced all the vicissitudes of life, and who could now regard the ardours of youthful affection and despair with a benign tolerance, as foreseeing the end from the beginning.