"For heaven's sake," she said, "play up. Nobody asked you to play tennis. But if you are asked don't say it's too hot. Do any of the flappers at the club ever find it too hot to play? Sprain an ankle or break a racket, but don't talk about its being too violent, or that you've given it up the last few years. Try to remember that for two days you're in the game again, and don't take on a handicap to begin with."
Well, things started off all right, I'll have to admit that, although Carrie looked a trifle queer when Harry Delaney, getting out of the motor that had brought them from the station, held out a baby's rattle to her.
"Found it in the car," he said. "How are the youngsters anyhow?"
"Adorable!" said Carrie, and flung the rattle into the house.
Roger came straight to me and took both my hands.
"Upon my word, Clara," he said, "this is more luck than I ever expected again. Do you remember the last time we were all here together?"
"Of course I do." He was still holding my hands and I felt rather silly. But the others had paired off instantly and no one was paying any attention.
"I was almost suicidal that last evening. You—you had just told me, you know."
I withdrew my hands. When a man is being sentimental I like him to be accurately sentimental. It had been a full month after that house party, at a dance Carrie gave, that I had told him of my engagement to Bill. However, I said nothing and took a good look at Roger. He was wonderful.
Why is it that married men lose their boyishness, and look smug and sleek and domesticated almost before the honeymoon is over? Roger stood there with his hat in his hand and the hot noon sun shining on him. And he hadn't changed a particle, except that his hair was grey over his ears and maybe a bit thinner. He was just as eager, just as boyish, just as lean as he'd ever been. And positively he was handsomer than ever.