"Steve! Where are you?"
Jim, in his room, unstrapping his suitcase, felt rather than heard somebody behind him; and, looking up over his shoulder saw a girl.
She was a trifle pale; dropped him a curtsey:
"I'm Steve," she said breathlessly.
Boy and girl regarded each other in silence for a moment; then Jim offered his hand:
"How do you do?" he said, calmly.
"I—I'm very well. I hope you are, too."
Another pause, during a most intent mutual inspection.
"My tennis bat," explained Jim, with polite condescension, "needs to be re-strung. That's why I brought it down from school.... Do you play tennis?"
"No."