She flew across to the window and threw it open.
“What is it?” she demanded eagerly.
“Nothing. We came up to telephone to the Cove to see if the launch has come. How much longer have you to torture that piano?”
“About—” Harry looked doubtfully at the little gilt clock on the mantel—“about half an hour—or twenty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen,” said Chub, “and come on out and play tennis. Dick and Roy against you and me. A cinch!”
“I can’t,” faltered Harry. “I have to practice two hours, you know. Mama’s away. If she were here I might skimp a little, but I don’t like to cheat when she’s gone.”
“That’s a noble sentiment,” said Dick. “Go ahead and do your worst, Harry; we’ll wait for you.”
“We’ll get our rackets and go over to the court,” said Roy.
“You’ll have to put the net up,” said Harry. “But don’t you go and begin to play till I come. Promise!”
“We promise!” answered the three in unison. Then they went around to the door, and as Harry closed the window, laughing, she heard them stampeding into the hall.