The boys looked at each other, puzzled. Who could it be?
“Oh, there’s Mary again,” said Della, pointing to a maid who at that moment emerged on the side veranda, overlooking the tennis court.
“Mister Robert, you’re wanted on the telephone,” came the maid’s voice.
Bob hurried indoors, Jack at his heels. Frank hung behind.
“Well, Mr. Frank Merrick,” said Della pertly. “Give an account of yourself, if you please. What 63 were you boys doing in the city to-day? You think you’re grand, don’t you, to go flying off in your airplane, on the very day I invite a girl down here to meet you?”
“Is she good looking, Della?” asked Frank, anxiously. “I won’t meet her if she isn’t good looking.”
Della realized he was merely teasing, but she made a cruel thrust in return.
“You don’t expect a good looking girl to be interested in you, do you?” she said.
Frank laughed, then reached out to seize her by the shoulders, but she eluded his grasp and went speeding off across the lawn with him in pursuit. They reached the tennis court, laughing and flushed, Della still in the lead. There Della beckoned the other girl to them, and managed introductions.
“This is that scatter-brained Frank Merrick, I told you about, Pete,” she said. “Frank, this is my own particular pal at Miss Sefton’s School, Marjorie Faulkner, better known as Pete. If you can beat her at tennis, you will have to play above your usual form.”