“We’re going to have a game of tennis; won’t you join us, Miss—­Miss Smith?”

The girl looked up with a smile, hesitated a moment, and then accepted the invitation.  Will, nodding to Tilly a surprised and pleased approval of her action, started off ahead of the others to see if the tennis ground was occupied.  As he turned the corner, he met Dora Robson with a racket in her hand.

“Oh,” she cried, “here you are!  I was just coming after you, for Amy and I have got to go in,—­mamma has sent for us, and Agnes was so disappointed,—­now it’s all right, for there’s Tilly, and—­what luck—­Tom Raymond; he’s such a splendid player, and you can—­” But Dora stopped, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.  Who—­who was that behind Tilly?

CHAPTER III.

As Agnes, standing waiting upon the tennis-ground where Dora had left her, suddenly caught sight of Tom Raymond, her heart gave a little throb of exultation.  Tom Raymond was the best tennis-player she knew.  To have him for her partner would be delightful, and she went forward with the most gracious welcome to him.  So absorbed was she, so pleased at Tom’s appearance, at his polite response to her, she did not observe Miss Smith,—­did not see Tilly draw back, did not hear her say, “No, I don’t care to play, Miss Smith, I want you to play with Will; this is my friend Will Wentworth, Miss Smith,” by way of introduction.

No; Agnes saw and heard nothing of all this, or of Will’s polite arrangements with the newcomer.  She saw nothing, she thought of nothing, but that her own little arrangement to have Tom for a partner was successful; and so, blithely and triumphantly, she took her place and lifted her racket.  Whizz! she sent the ball flying over the netting, and whizz! it came flying back again, to be returned by Tom Raymond’s vigorous stroke.  Agnes regarded this stroke with due admiration.  “Neither Will nor Tilly can match that,” she thought; and at the thought she looked over and across the netting, to see a girl’s uplifted arm swinging easily forward, the racket hitting the ball lightly with a swift, sure, upward, and onward motion.  Where had Tilly learned to strike out like that, all at once?  Tilly!  The uplifted arm that had partially hidden the player’s face was lowered.  What—­what—­it was not Tilly, but—­but—­that girl!  How did she come there?  A glance at Will’s face drawn up into a most exasperating grin, at Will’s eyes darting forth gleams of fun, was enough for Agnes.

Yes, this was Will Wentworth’s doing,—­this hateful plot to humiliate her and triumph over her.  Stung by this thought, she lost sight for that moment of everything else, and the ball sent so surely back to her dropped to the ground before her partner could rescue it.  An exclamation of disappointment from Tom added to her discomfiture; and when Will, the next instant, cried, “Wait a minute, till I get another racket, Miss Smith has broken hers,” Agnes, flinging down her own, exclaimed,—­