“I'll have a partner over to put you through your paces in tennis,” Mrs. Calvert had said, a quiet twinkle in her eye. And shortly afterward, as Garrison was aimlessly batting the balls about, feeling very much like an overgrown schoolboy, Sue Desha, tennis-racket in hand, had come up the drive.
She was bareheaded, dressed in a blue sailor costume, her sleeves rolled high on her firm, tanned arms. She looked very businesslike, and was, as Garrison very soon discovered.
Three sets were played in profound silence, or, rather, the girl made a spectacle out of Garrison. Her services were diabolically unanswerable; her net and back court game would have merited the earnest attention of an expert, and Garrison hardly knew where a racket began or ended.
At the finish he was covered with perspiration and confusion, while his opponent, apparently, had not begun to warm up. By mutual consent, they occupied a seat underneath a spreading magnolia-tree, and then the girl insisted upon Garrison resuming his coat. They were like two children.
“You'll get cold; you're not strong,” said the girl finally, with the manner of a very old and experienced mother. She was four years younger than Garrison. “Put it on; you're not strong. That's right. Always obey.”
“I am strong,” persisted Garrison, flushing. He felt very like a schoolboy.
The girl eyed him critically, calmly.
“Oh, but you're not; not a little bit. Do you know you're very—very—rickety? Very rickety, indeed.”
Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation. They flapped about his thin, wiry shanks most disagreeably. He was painfully conscious of his elbows, of his thin chest. Painfully conscious that the girl was physical perfection, he was a parody of manhood. He looked up, with a smile, and met the girl's frank eyes.
“I think rickety is just the word,” he agreed, spanning a wrist with a finger and thumb.