Connie Queerington was assisting, but Connie's assistance was
generally a hindrance. She was an exceedingly voluble, blond young
person, with blue eyes that enjoyed nothing more than their own
reflection.
"I'll never get it hooked if you don't hold still," she was saying.
"Every time you laugh you pop it open."
"Fifteen--love, thirty--love, forty--love, game!" rehearsed Miss Lady,
practising a newly acquired serve with a vigorous stroke of her
racket. "I could play all day and all night! Do you think I'll ever
get to be a good player?"
"Of course, if you just won't get so excited and hit the balls before
they bounce. Gerald Ivy says your overhand play is great. He's mad
about you, anyhow. I'd give both my little fingers to have him look at
me as he did at you to-day."
"Silly!" laughed Miss Lady. "There goes the button off my slipper. Do
you suppose any one will notice if I pin the strap?"
"Nobody but Myrtella. Sit on your foot if she comes around. If you
don't hurry Cousin Katherine will have nervous prostration."
"I don't see why you have to treat reception day like judgment day,"
complained Miss Lady. "Who else is down stairs?"
"Only Mrs.
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