eglected, he left her, and she sat alone for a little while,
watching him play. She was glad that she had not played; she could not
have rivaled the activity of the Vicarage girls. She got up and joined
Mrs. Sterling, who was presiding over the club teapot. The good lady
expected compliments on her son, but for some reason Mrs. Mortimer gave
her none. Very soon, indeed, she took Johnnie away with her, leaving
her husband to follow at his leisure.

In comparing Maudie Sinclair to a suet pudding, Harry had looked at the
dark side of the matter.

The suggestion, though indisputable, was only occasionally obtrusive,
and as a rule hushed almost to silence by the pleasant good nature
which redeemed shapeless features. Mrs. Mortimer had always liked
Maudie, who ran in and out of her house continually, and had made of
herself a vice-mother to the little children.

The very next day she came, and, in the intervals of playing cricket
with Johnnie, took occasion to inform Mrs. Mortimer that in her opinion
Harry Sterling was by no means improved by his new status and dignity.
She went so far as to use the term "stuck-up." "He didn't use to be
like that," she said, shaking her head; "he used to be very jolly."
Mrs. Mortimer was relieved to note an entire absence of romance either
in the regretted past or the condemned present. Maudie mourned a
friend spoiled, not an admirer lost; the tone of her criticisms left no
doubt of it, and Mrs. Mortimer, with a laugh, announced her intention
of asking the Sterlings to dinner and having Maudie to meet them. "You
will be able to make it up then," said she.

"Why, I see him every day at the tennis club," cried Maudie in surprise.

The faintest of blushes tinged Mrs. Mortimer's cheek as she chid
herself for forgetting this obvious fact.

The situation now developed rapidly. The absurd thing happened: Harry
Sterling began to take a serious view of his attachment to Mrs.
Mortimer. The one thing more absurd, that she should take a serious
view of it, had not happened yet, and, indeed, would never happen; so
she told herself with a nervous little laugh. Harry gave her no
opportunity of saying so to him, for you cannot reprove glances or
discourage pressings of your hand in fashion so blunt.

And he was very discreet: he never made her look foolish. In public he
treated her with just the degree of attention that gained his mother's
fond eulogium, and his father's approving smile; wh