They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. She was mentally transported for an instant to the old castle in Herculis. “My arrival appears to be opportune,” he said stiffly. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. I could tell it was Italian, you see. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. Let me take the satchel, sir.
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