Ruth laughed. By this time they had reached the court and were selecting racquets and tossing for sides.
“Stephen, Ruth and I will play against you and Barbara,” said Alfred rather testily. “What is the use of tossing when it was arranged beforehand?”
“You seem rather eager, Alfred, my boy,” replied Stephen. “I’m sure we have no objections, have we, Barbara?”
“None,” said Barbara, “At least I haven’t. You may, however, when you hear that Ruth won the championship at Newport last summer.”
“You look to me like a pretty good player, too,” said Stephen.
Just then Jimmie Butler appeared, bearing a hammock and a book.
“You can get in the next set, Jimmie,” called Stephen. “We are just starting in on this one.”
“I don’t care for the game,” replied Jimmie. “I prefer a book ’neath the bough, especially as this house party seems to go in companies of twos. Every laddie has a lassie but me, so I’ve taken to literature.”
He waved his hand toward the garden, and then toward the walk leading from the house.
In the old-fashioned flower garden, a stone’s throw from the court, could be seen Miss Sallie and the major strolling along the paths, stopping occasionally to examine the late roses and smell the honeysuckle trained over wicker arches.