"But you're a great artist," said Betty, watching him with clasped
hands. "I suppose it would be--I mean--don't you know, we're not rich,
and I suppose your lessons are worth pounds and pounds."

"I don't give lessons for money," his lips tightened--"only for love."

"That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to find
herself on the defensive feebly against--nothing.

"At tennis, yes," he said, and to himself he added: "_Vieux jeu_, my
dear, but you did it very prettily."

"But I couldn't let you give me lessons for nothing."

"Why not?" he asked. And his calmness made Betty feel ashamed and
sordid.

"I don't know," she answered tremulously, but I don't think my
step-father would want me to."

"You think it would annoy him?"

"I'm sure it would, if he knew about it."

Betty was thinking how little her step-father had ever cared to know
of her and her interests. But the man caught the ball as he saw it.

"Then why let him know?" was the next move; and it seemed to him that
Betty's move of rejoinder came with a readiness born of some practice