The boy grew scarlet.
“Oh, I didn't think you—you could play tennis,” he stammered.
Honora stopped, and seized his chin and tilted his face upward.
“Now, Joshua,” she said, “look at me and say that over again.”
“Well,” he replied desperately, “I thought you wouldn't want to get all mussed up and hot.”
“That's better,” said Honora. “You thought I was vain, didn't you?”
“But I don't think so any more,” he avowed passionately. “I think you're a trump. And we'll play again to-morrow, won't we?”
“We'll play any day you like,” she declared.
It is unfair to suppose that the arrival of a real vicomte and of a young, good-looking, and successful member of the New York Stock Exchange were responsible for Honora's appearance, an hour later, in the embroidered linen gown which Cousin Eleanor had given her that spring. Tea was already in progress on the porch, and if a hush in the conversation and the scraping of chairs is any sign of a sensation, this happened when our heroine appeared in the doorway. And Mrs. Holt, in the act of lifting the hot-water kettle; put it down again. Whether or not there was approval in the lady's delft-blue eye, Honora could not have said. The Vicomte, with the graceful facility of his race, had differentiated himself from the group and stood before her. As soon as the words of introduction were pronounced, he made a bow that was a tribute in itself, exaggerated in its respect.
“It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,” he murmured, but his eyes were more eloquent.