"Pollyanna isn't playing any more this morning."
"Isn't playing!" frowned Jimmy, who had been counting on his own game with Pollyanna. "Why not?"
For a brief minute Sadie Dean did not answer; then with very evident difficulty she said:
"Pollyanna told me last night that she thought we were playing tennis too much; that it wasn't kind to—Mr. Carew, as long as he can't play."
"I know; but—" Jimmy stopped helplessly, the frown plowing a deeper furrow into his forehead. The next instant he fairly started with surprise at the tense something in Sadie Dean's voice, as she said:
"But he doesn't want her to stop. He doesn't want any one of us to make any difference—for him. It's that that hurts him so. She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand! But I do. She thinks she does, though!"
Something in words or manner sent a sudden pang to Jimmy's heart. He threw a sharp look into her face. A question flew to his lips. For a moment he held it back; then, trying to hide his earnestness with a bantering smile, he let it come.
"Why, Miss Dean, you don't mean to convey the idea that—that there's any special interest in each other—between those two, do you?"
She gave him a scornful glance.
"Where have your eyes been? She worships him! I mean—they worship each other," she corrected hastily.
Jimmy, with an inarticulate ejaculation, turned and
