und
the precincts of the court and call out: "I say, listen to this, Lucy.
Three split infinitives."

"Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finished
their set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, and
really every one must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to
hunt for a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced.

"The scene is laid in Florence."

"What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all your
energy." She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a point
of being pleasant to him.

He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You--and are
you tired?"

"Of course I'm not!"

"Do you mind being beaten?"

She was going to answer, "No," when it struck her that she did mind,
so she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see you're such
a splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in my
eyes."

"I never said I was."

"Why, you did!"

"You didn't attend."

"You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We all
exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."

"'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, with an upward note.

Lucy recollected herself.

"'Sunset. Leonora was speeding--'"

Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?"

"Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray
the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy.
Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call it
now--'"

Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss
Lavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody
else's name."

"Who may Miss Lavish be?"

"Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"

Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.

George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer
Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."

"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bent
down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean
something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against
her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder the
novel's bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one
ought to read it as one's met her."

"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoye