the most profound reflections upon the vanity of human affairs. “I’ll tell you what I will do,” Betty said at length, reflectively. “I’ll write to George and make him visit grandmother. He hasn’t been there for a year, to stay; and, as grandmother[111] says, she ‘admires to have him.’ I’ll tell him if he’ll stay there, out of sight, I think I can fix things with you.” [111] “Oh, you delicious, darling hypocrite!” exclaimed her friend, embracing her rapturously. “You are a perfect treasure, Bet! I’ll do anything to help you,—anything. I’ve been perfectly wretched ever since George went away; but of course I couldn’t say so, if I’d died.” III. “So you are not going to play with Bradford, after all?” Nat Granton said, flinging himself on the turf at Miss Mork’s feet as she sat watching the tennis-players practising for the tournament. So “No,” she answered. “He and Flora have recovered from their temporary alienation, and I was generous and took myself out of the way.” “Will you play with me?” “Thank you; no. I shall not go into any team; and in any case, I know too well your sentiments on the subject of girls’ playing to trespass on your good nature.” “Then I shall not play,” he said, rather crossly. “And pray what do I care if you don’t?” [112] [112] “It would be polite to pretend to, at any rate.” “‘The slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my crimes;’” she quoted, twirling her gay parasol swiftly on its handle. “Do see Tom Carruth serve. That cut is my despair.”
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