But she shook her head and rose—angry, which she hid, but also amused at his pertinacity.
“I can't write decently with a pencil,” she said, carelessly, and her eyes followed his hand putting the letter back into his pocket. That she should have actually had the letter in her hand, and had to give it back! But no quick-witted pretext had occurred to help her. Rose would think her stupid—utterly lacking in expedients.
She left the summer-house, unfurling her umbrella, and Farringdon followed instantly, his failure apparently forgotten.
They passed the tennis-court on their way to the house, and—
“Do you play?” he asked.
“A little.” Her intonation mocked the formula.
“Might we, then, this afternoon—”
She gave him a side glance. “If you don't mind losing,” she suggested.
“But I play to win,” he modestly met it, and again they laughed.
Rose Eversley looked with curiosity at her sister when she entered the dining-room for luncheon, followed by Farringdon, but Edith's face was non-committal. She was bright and vivacious, and made herself very pleasant to Farringdon, who sat by her. After luncheon they went to the tennis-court together.