"I am strong," persisted Garrison, flushing. He felt very like a
schoolboy.

The girl eyed him critically, calmly.

"Oh, but you're not; not a little bit. Do you know you're
very--very--rickety? Very rickety, indeed."

Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation. They flapped about
his thin, wiry shanks most disagreeably. He was painfully conscious of
his elbows, of his thin chest. Painfully conscious that the girl was
physical perfection, he was a parody of manhood. He looked up, with a
smile, and met the girl's frank eyes.

"I think rickety is just the word," he agreed, spanning a wrist with a
finger and thumb.

"You cannot play tennis, can you?" asked the girl dryly. "Not a little,
tiny bit."

"No; not a little bit."

"Golf?" Head on one side.

"Not guilty."

"Swim?"

"Gloriously. Like a stone."