Marie nodded. She knew everything there was to know about Chris. At home she had a scrapbook, her most treasured possession, carefully pasted up with every little newspaper cutting that had ever been printed about him, from the first long jump he had won at a local school to an account of a wedding a few months back at which he had been best man.
She had whispered to Aunt Madge as they kissed good-bye, to be sure to cut the announcement of their wedding from the newspapers so that she could add it to her collection, and Aunt Madge had promised. Somehow it made her feel sick now to think of it! Such a farcical wedding—no real wedding at all! No wonder they had wanted it quiet!
Though she hardly looked at the table before her she seemed to see nothing but those smooth, ivory balls, and the only sound in the world was their monotonous click, click!
Chris was winning, young Atkins whispered to her. Poor old Feathers 24 was not in the running at all. He bent a little closer to her.
"Have you seen Chris play tennis?" he asked. "Gad! He can serve! As good as any Wimbledon 'pro'! I'll bet my boots . . . I say, what's the matter? Here, Chris!"
He called sharply across the room to Chris, but it was too late, for Marie had slipped fainting from the high leather couch.
CHAPTER III
". . . the leaves are curled apart.
Still red as from the broken heart,