"I understood that you wanted one," Betty answered, unmoved, observing the fringe of her parasol with great apparent interest; "but of course I knew your invitation was not to be taken too seriously." "Oh, bother!" the young man cried, slashing viciously at the head of a late-blooming daisy. "Why do you always insist on quarrelling with me?" "Are we really quarrelling?" she laughed back with her most exasperating lightness of manner. "How delightful! If there is one thing that I enjoy more than I do tennis, it is a good quarrel." "Tennis!" Granton retorted, the last shreds of his patience giving way. "It must be allowed that you can quarrel better than you can play. No girl," he went on, with increasing acerbity, "can ever really play tennis: she only plays at playing it; and it spoils any man's game to play with her. For my part, I cannot see why they are to be admitted to the tournament at all." "_Merci!_" exclaimed Mistress Betty, stopping in the sun-dappled way to make him a profound courtesy. "Now I know what your true sentiments are, and how much your invitation was worth. Thank you for nothing, Mr. Nat Granton. I wish you luck of your partner,--when you get one. It is a cruel shame that by the rules of the tournament it must be a girl!" And before Granton was able to reply or knew what she intended, pretty Miss Mork, with her tripping gait, her bright eyes, ugly name, and all, had whisked through a turnstile and was half-way across the lawn of the cottage where her particular bosom-friend Miss Dora Mosely was spending the summer. II. While Granton continued his perturbed way down the lovely village street to the Elm House, which for the time being was the home of a pleasant colony of summer idlers seeking rest and diversion in Maugus, Miss Betty flitted lightly over the lawn and joined her friend, whom she found reposing in a hammock swung under the cool veranda. "Oh, Dolly," was her breathless salutation, "I've got the awfullest thing to do! But I'll do it, or perish in the attempt!" "Halloo, Betty!" was Miss Mosely's response and greeting; "how like a whirlwind you are! What is the matter? What have you got to do?" "Beat Mr. Granton at tennis in the tournament." "You and Mr. Bradford, you mean?" "No; I mean all by myself,--in a single. I sha'n't play in the double at all, if I can get out of it without sneaking." "What in the world has happened to bring you to this desperate frame of mind?" "Well, Dolly, the fact is, Mr. Granton has been making himself particularly odious because I wouldn't throw over Frank Bradford to play with him, and--" "I told you," her friend interrupted judicially, examining the toe of her slipper with much interest and satisfaction, "that you'd be sorry you agreed to play with Frank."