so long that he surely must be dead, when Price Latham wanted to marry her.
"Mr. Sherwood! Telephone call for Mr. Sherwood!" a bellboy announced.
Geoff went down to the booth. His sister was on the wire; she had been trying to find him all afternoon and just had learned he had come to the club. He answered her irritably as she told her news before he sensed the unusual excitement in her voice.
"What?" he asked. "Say that again; and please say it slower. What? What? . . . You're crazy, Margaret! . . . Oh, dear, you know I didn't mean that—I meant don't fool yourself again. . . . What? . . . Oh, all right; of course I'll come right away, and I'll be awfully glad for your sake if it's so."
He jerked open the booth door and went back to the racket court and waited beside the door to the players' floor till the cannonading inside ceased. Another game was over. Geoff opened the door. The professional, beaten again, stood puffing apologetically. Latham turned, his dark hair hardly damp.
"Ready, Geoff?"
