"Venus and Adonis playing tennis, eh?" Crowley said.
"Oh, cut it out," Houston exclaimed.
"They didn't play tennis, did they?" Florence asked.
"He ought to know," Houston put in, "he's working for that Rome scholarship—but he'll never get it any more than I shall the Athens...."
"They used to play hand ball—the gods did——" Crowley explained professorily. "And in a court, too. I suppose your tennis is merely a survival of that old Greek game."
The three sat at the edge of the court while Crowley discoursed learnedly upon the pastimes of the ancient Greeks. The deep throated bells in the Library Tower rang out the hour of eight across the maples and the amateur lecturer rose lazily.
"Do you want to go down town, Jack?" he asked indifferently.
Had Houston known how breathlessly Crowley hung upon his answer he would not have taken so long to make it. As it was he glanced up at his room-mate and across at Florence whose eyes met his with a look of inquiry. He looked away then and Crowley glanced at the girl, and in her eyes he seemed to see a challenge.
"He's not going down town," she said, quite definitely, though still smiling; "he's going home with me."
Crowley shrugged his shoulders.