hat shall I say? What shall I do?" he said to himself, cold with
horror. There seemed to be nothing he could say or do. His very presence
was an impertinence, which she must resent.

Luckily no one was in the house except their hostess and he had a short
moment to reassemble his thoughts before they strolled down to join the
party at the tennis courts. He was known to most of the crowd who
greeted his appearance as the return of the prodigal. Patsie was on the
courts, her back to him as they came up, Gladys Stone on the opposite
side of the net. Some one called out joyfully, "Bojo Crocker!" and she
turned with an involuntarily startled movement, then hastily controlling
herself at the cry of her partner, drove the ball into the net for the
loss of the point.

When next, ensconced under a red-and-white awning among the array of
cool flannels and summery dresses, he sought her, she was seriously
intent on Hieher game, a little frown on her young forehead, her lips
rebelliously set, the swirling white silk collar open at the browned
throat, the sleeve rolled up above the firm slender forearm. She moved
lightly as a young animal in slow, well calculated tripping movements or
in rapid shifting springs. Her partner, a younger brother of Skeeter's,
home on vacation, gathered in the balls and offered them to her with a
solicitude that was quite evident. Bojo felt an instinctive antipathy
watching their laughing intimacy. It seemed to him that they excluded
him, that she was still a child unable to distinguish between a
stripling and a man, still without need of any deeper emotions than a
light-hearted romping comradeship.

With the ending of the set, greetings could no longer be avoided. As
she came to him directly, holding out her hand in the most natural way,
he felt as though he were going red to the ears, that every one must
perceive his embarrassment before this girl still in her teens. He said
stupidly, pretending amazement,

"You here? Well, this is a surprise!"

"Yes, isn't it?" she said with seeming unconsciousness.

That was all. The next moment she was in some new group, arranging
another match. Short and circumstantial as her greeting had been, it
left him with a sinking despair. He had hurt her irrevocably, she
resented his presence--that was evident. His whole coming had been a
dreadful mistake. Depressed, he turned to Gladys Stone to attempt the
concealment from strange eyes of the disorder within himself.