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 dismount. She accepted my help with a delicious lightness, as though it might amuse me, and couldn't hurt her.

"I have been watching Mr. Brunt at tennis," she said, as she stroked the tiger-eye neck, which arched itself in grateful response.

"How did you like his playing?"

"Like it?" she cried, with mock solemnity. "I regarded it with fear and respect."

"He does play well, doesn't he?" I asked, for lam immensely proud of John's tennis. So different from what you would expect of a literary man.

"He plays to win!" she said, and then, laughing: "I trust I may never be called upon to play against him."

"He does serve like a streak of lightning," I admitted, "and it is not easy to surprise him."

Miss Lamb disappeared within the house, returning in a moment with a letter in her hand.

"I suppose," she said, with a slight