And what could Connie do? She couldn't sternly order a millionaire's son to mosy around the house and mind his own business until she got some decent clothes on, though that was what she yearned to do. Instead she held out a slender hand, grimy and red, with a few ugly scratches here and there, and allowed herself to be helped ignominiously out from the sheltering branches into the garish light of day.
She looked at him reproachfully. He never so much as smiled.
"Laugh if you like," she said bitterly. "I looked in the mirror. I know all about it."
"Run along," he said, "but don't be gone long, will you? Can you trust me with the cherries?"
Connie walked into the house with great decorum, afraid the ragged skirts might swing revealingly, but the young man bent over the cherries while she made her escape.
It was another Connie who appeared a little later, a typical tennis girl, all in white from the velvet band in her hair to the canvas shoes on her dainty feet. She held out the slender hand, no longer grimy and stained, but its whiteness still marred with sorry scratches.
"I am glad to see you," she said gracefully, "though I can only pray you won't carry a mental picture of me very long."
"I'm afraid I will though," he said teasingly.
"Then please don't paint me verbally for my sisters' ears; they are always so clever where I am concerned. It is too bad they are out. You'll stay for luncheon with me, won't you? I'm all alone,—we'll have it in the yard."
"It sounds very tempting, but—perhaps I had better come again later in the afternoon."