“You seem to be greatly pleased at Howard’s good luck,” Granton observed, remembering that when his success had been clapped, just before, Miss Mork had refrained from lending a hand.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she returned. “I’ve bet him a pair of gloves he wins.”

“What will you bet me I lose?” demanded he, not especially pleased at any sort of understanding[118] between the young lady before him and Howard.

[118]

“Anything you like.”

“I should like nothing so much as—”

“As what?”

“No; upon reflection I don’t think I dare mention it,” Granton said coolly, looking at her with an expression in his big brown eyes which made her flush in spite of herself.

“Don’t be impudent,” she replied. “That is my province.”

“Time!” called the umpire, a little later. “Howard and Granton, concluding set.”

“Wish me luck,” Granton murmured, bending toward Betty as he rose.

“I’m sure I do, for my own sake,” she responded, with an ambiguity he afterward had reason to understand.

“What shall I do if Mr. Howard beats him?” Betty said to George and Dora, as the set began. “There’d be no fun playing him instead of Mr. Granton.”

“Oh, Howard hasn’t the ghost of a chance,” George responded reassuringly. “You are all right, Bet, if you don’t get nervous.”

But Betty did get nervous. The color came and went in her cheeks almost as swiftly as the flying balls were thrown, whose skilful[119] service and returns soon proved Snow to be right in asserting that Howard had no chance against his antagonist.

[119]

“Oh, George,” she whispered, in an agony of apprehension, “can I do it? Won’t he beat me? It would be too horrible to challenge him and then fail!”

“Do it?” retorted her cousin; “of course you can do it! See that short serve. That’s what’s breaking Howard up: it’s easy for you to return if you’ll run up to it. His swift service doesn’t begin to be as good as 

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