The nuptials between Guy Perry and Miss Peggy Blake took place the following summer—midway in June, the month of brides. They were married in the little Episcopal church at Westfield, which since the advent of the colony and of millionnaires had thriven like the traditional bay tree, for most of the sporting element belonged, nominally at least, to that fashionable persuasion. Hence the rector, the Rev. Percy Ward, who had assumed this cure of souls with modest expectations regarding numbers and revenues, had been pleasantly astonished by the rapid increase in both. This had not made him proud, but appropriately ambitious. It had allowed him to keep the appearance and properties of the church up to the mark, Æsthetically speaking, by vines, flowers and fresh paint, and at the proper moment it had encouraged him to ask for a new house of worship adapted to the needs of his growing congregation. Success had crowned his efforts. Plans were being drawn for an artistic and sufficiently spacious building to take the place of the rustic quarters in use. But the bride had expressed herself as devoutly thankful that she could be married in the original building, for she had pious associations with it, and its smaller proportions seemed to her more in keeping with a country wedding. For Peggy desired that the ceremony should be an out-of-door affair. She had even thought at first of being married under a bell of roses on her father's lawn. Yet, when it came to the point she adhered to a ceremony in church. She wished to be wedded to her true love as securely as possible, consequently she invoked for the purpose full religious rites at the altar, but her energies respecting the other features of the occasion were bent on the production of open-air effects. They were to be simple and rurally picturesque.

The guests of the happy pair endeavored to comply with the wishes of the bride consistently with regard for their own personal appearance. That is, the women came in light summer attire, but with frocks of fascinating shades, and straw hats of the latest dainty design with gay feathers. The little church was packed to the doors, and on the green fronting the vestibule stood those of the men for whom there was no room inside. The leading members of the hunt were in pink, at Peggy's suggestion; among them Andrew Cunningham with an immaculate stock and a new waistcoat of festal pattern. It was a radiant, rare June day; not a cloud was in the sky. The ceremony went off without a hitch save the momentary hesitation occasioned by the bridegroom's diving into the wrong pocket for the ring. All Peggy's family had expressed fears lest her veil should fall off in keeping with her tendencies, so it had been more than securely pinned to forestall such a calamity. She walked, on her father's arm, modestly yet firmly up the aisle as became a strenuous spirit; her responses were agreeably audible; and on her way down, though she obeyed the instructions given her to keep her eyes straight ahead—on the ball, as one of her friends had cautioned her—it was clear from her blissful, confident expression that she found difficulty in not nodding to her friends right and left by way of letting them know how happy she was. She was dressed as nearly like a village maiden as prevailing fashions in wedding garments would allow, and the simplicity of her garb set off her fine physique and hue of health, which not even the conventional pallor of brides was able wholly to dispel. Four bridesmaids tripped behind her, the picture of dainty shepherdesses.

On reaching the portal, however, Mrs. Peggy was unable to repress her exuberance; and, before jumping into the carriage which was to carry them to the breakfast at "Valley Farm," her father's residence, she grasped and shook ecstatically a half dozen of the nearest hands. Then as the vehicle containing the happy pair rolled away, while the bride threw a kiss to the group of friends at the door, the swell of a horn rose melodiously above other sounds, and along the meadow flanking one side of the foreground the pack of hounds belonging to the Westfield Hunt came into view headed by the Master, and every hound wore a wedding favor. This feature had been devised as a surprise to the couple and a tribute to their devotion to equestrian sport. Besides, it had a special touch of interest for the women in that everyone knew that Kenneth Post, the Master, would fain have been in the shoes of the fortunate bridegroom. Yet he played his part with so much dignity and spirit, as he led the way toward their destination, that the contagion of his demeanor spread to the entire retinue of guests which followed in their various equipages and the omnibuses or so-called "barges" provided, and the procession swept along on the wings of gayety.

In the midst of the confusion of getting away, the pole of pretty Mrs. Baxter's village cart was broken through collision with the champing steeds bearing the phaeton containing Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Wallace. Among the many proffers of succor the first and most acceptable emanated from Mrs. Walter Cole, who had obviously a spare seat in her neat oak station wagon. The fact was that Mrs. Cole's husband, having been detained in town by pressing business, had telephoned his wife at the last moment to go without him to the ceremony, and that he would follow by the next train. Consequently she had arrived only barely in time to get a seat, and that by dint of crowding the pew a little.

She had sat there as in a trance, unable to fasten her attention on the charming spectacle as fixedly as it deserved. Her mind kept wandering elsewhere; reverting to certain amazing news of which she had become possessed only the afternoon before, and which she had had no opportunity to impart to the many who would be thrilled by it. She was revelling in the thought of the sensation it would produce, and her own intelligence was agreeably busy with the clever novelty of the procedure and with trying to decide whether, in spite of the heartlessness displayed, the solution devised was not perhaps the best under the peculiar circumstances. She had felt that she should burst if she could not tell some kindred soul soon; but such an astounding piece of information was not to be wasted on people whose faculties were already fully occupied; it merited a single mind. Therefore the moment she became aware of Mrs. Baxter's mishap, she exclaimed with almost hysterical eagerness:

"Rachel, there's a seat for you here. Do come with me; I'm all alone."

When the invitation was accepted, Mrs. Cole pressed her hand and leaned back with a happy mien. There was no use in speaking until they were free from the concourse and were sweeping along the road toward "Valley Farm." That auspicious moment having arrived, she turned to her friend and said:

"Well, dear, the mystery is solved."

"About Lydia?" asked Mrs. Baxter with breathless animation.

"Yes. She sent for me as soon as she returned. I went to town to see her yesterday."

"Where has she been all this time?"

"Nominally, as we were told, travelling in Mexico for two months with her cousins; in reality coming to terms with Maxwell in regard to a divorce."

"Then they are really to be divorced? How pitiful! But I suppose it was the only solution. Do go on, dear," she added, fearing lest this crude philosophic digression might be the reason for the pause on Mrs. Cole's part.

But the narrator, though she regarded the comment as superficial, was merely arranging her material with a view to dramatic effect.

"We had a heart-to-heart talk. She told me everything. She wishes people to know—and to try to understand her point of view. Yes, Rachel, they are to be divorced. The papers are already filed. The lawyers say that it is simple enough, if both the parties are agreed, and it seems they are—all three of the parties rather. The court proceedings will be as secret as possible. Herbert is to let her obtain it from him—for cruel and abusive treatment or gross and confirmed habits of intoxication—to save Lydia's reputation on the child's account. Then Lydia is to marry Harry Spencer and live happily ever after—if she can."

"She never would have been happy with Maxwell," remarked Mrs. Baxter pensively. "Poor fellow! When one reflects that he probably was never cruel or abused her in his life, and that his confirmed habits, if he has them, are due to her neglect! What is to become of him?"

Mrs. Cole had been waiting for some such question. "The law is queer, you know," she said, by way of disposing of the rest of the plaint. Then she added, with significant emphasis, "He is to have Guen."

"Altogether?"

"Altogether. That is the way Lydia got him to consent to a divorce."

Not being so clever as some women, Mrs. Baxter looked puzzled. "I don't think I quite understand."

Mrs. Cole, who was enjoying thoroughly the gradual climax, sat upright, and facing her companion laid her hand on Mrs. Baxter's arm.

"Rachel," she said, "Lydia has sold Guendolen to her husband for two million dollars!"

Mrs. Baxter gave a gasp and a smothered shriek. "Two million dollars! The poor, dear child!"

The two ejaculations were not entirely consistent, for they revealed a divided interest. Mrs. Cole proceeded to face the second first.

"I've thought it all over and over,—I did not sleep until four, I was so excited—and there can't be any doubt that, under the circumstances, it's the best thing for the child. Her father dotes on her, and Lydia never has been able to forget that she is the living image of his mother. It was probably a struggle—she intimated as much—for it sounds so revolting, and a woman is supposed to be a lioness where her own flesh and blood are concerned. But when it came to a choice between Guen and Harry Spencer, she chose the one she cared for most."

"And she really gets two millions? Why, she will be as rich as before."

"Exactly. That's one of the interesting phases of the case. You see, they couldn't afford to marry, for neither of them had any money to speak of, though they were dead in love with each other. On the other hand, they had never done anything—so Lydia swears, and I believe her—which would entitle Herbert Maxwell to a divorce; so when Herbert invited her to leave the house, she replied that she would, and that she would take Guendolen with her. It just happened to occur to her, but the effect was marvellous. It enabled her to hold over Herbert's head the menace that, when parents who can't get on agree to separate, the courts are likely to give a baby girl to the mother, and oblige the father to be content with occasional reasonable visits. That frightened Herbert nearly to death. It seems he raged like a bull—poor man!—and threatened to shoot anyone who laid a finger on the child. Now comes the really clever part," continued Mrs. Cole, with an appreciative sigh. "Lydia had threatened to take Guen merely to gain time to think, but when she realized that she and Harry Spencer could never be happy unless she were willing to lead what the newspapers call a double life, she was at her wits' end. Then the idea suddenly occurred to her, and—horrible as it was at the first glance—it seemed the solution of everything. So she engaged a lawyer to open negotiations with her husband, and she went away to Mexico to give Herbert a chance to think over the proposal. She lived in terror of centipedes while she was gone, but there were lots of interesting old relics there, and one day she got a telegram from her lawyer announcing that the whole thing was settled. The necessary papers have been drawn, and as soon as the divorce is granted she will get the money. What do you think of that? Isn't it original and revolting, and yet, seeing that she is Lydia, comprehensible? And the most extraordinary thing of all is that, when one considers the matter dispassionately, it is not clear that it isn't the most sensible arrangement all round."

Rachel Baxter, being of a less philosophical turn of mind, was still aghast.

"What will people say?" she added naively, as one in monologue. "Of course, they have their money."

"They have their money, and Lydia proposes to come back here as soon as she has—er—changed husbands. That's just like her, too. She intends that Westfield shall treat her precisely as though nothing had happened."

"Really!" Mrs. Baxter's surprise showed a touch of consternation. "It will be very awkward, won't it? Though, after all," she murmured, "it isn't anything criminal, like—" She found difficulty in hitting on an appropriate simile. Meanwhile Mrs. Cole added, dispassionately:

"She would have come to-day, but she felt that she might be thought indelicate, considering that it is a wedding, and that her own affairs are still at sixes and sevens so far as appearances go. But she sent her love to Peggy."

At the moment they were dashing up the driveway of "Valley Farm." Mrs. Baxter, who had been nursing her emotions as one whose ethical sensibilities had received a blow in the solar plexus, made this attempt at a summary:

"It is diabolical, but interesting. I wonder what people will say."

No time was lost by either of them in spreading the abnormal news. But it suited pretty Mrs. Baxter's temperament better to follow in her companion's wake, supplementing the narrative by ingenuous cooing speeches rather than by an independent excursion. They joined at first the procession of guests making snail-like progress toward the bride and groom, who were holding court in the drawing-room of the decorative modern mansion built for occupation from May to December. As chance would have it, they found themselves next in line behind Mrs. Andrew Cunningham, into whose ear Fannie Cole, bending forward, whispered simply the fell words:

"Lydia has sold Guendolen to her husband for two million dollars, and is to marry Harry Spencer on the proceeds as soon as the divorce is granted."

The mother of the hunt made no sign for a moment, like one stunned. Then, as comprehension of the facts dawned upon her, the blood mounted to her face so that the crab-apples in her cheeks were very much in evidence, and she bounced completely round.

"That caps the climax! That is the most up-to-date, highly evolved performance yet. Who told you?" The sardonic ire in her voice was formidable.

"Lydia—yesterday."

Incredulity snatching at the chance of exaggeration was thus baffled. "It's monstrous! I shall never speak to her again."

Appalled by the bluntness of the threat, Mrs. Baxter interposed naively, "But she is going to live here after she is married."

"So much the better." Whereupon Mrs. Cunningham turned her back upon them, in search of her husband, to whom she felt the urgent need of imparting the information.

Mrs. Cole nodded her head, as much as to say that she understood the point of view, but her perspicuous philosophy prompted her to take a much broader view of the situation.

"It's dreadful, May, of course, and disconcerting to maternal notions," she began; "but—" Then realizing that for the moment the indignant censor was otherwise occupied, she decided to reserve her ameliorating comments for a more favorable opportunity than the promiscuous line afforded. After all, the episode was not meat for babes, and undeniably deserved more than flippant treatment.

The news thus unbosomed spread like wildfire. After kissing the bride, Mrs. Cole, during her progress to the piazza and lawn, where many of the guests were beginning to partake of refreshments appropriate to the occasion, had the satisfaction of throwing it like a bombshell into successive groups; while the Cunninghams lost no time in revealing what they had heard. Wherever it was uttered it took the place of every other topic, so that presently all the adults and many of the minors of the company were feverishly discussing the social drama presented.

The course of the wedding breakfast, thus enlivened, proceeded according to programme. It was a felicitous scene, what with the balmy, brilliant day, the brightly dressed assembly, and the picturesque addition of the pack of hounds, which danced attendance at a respectful distance within proper limits previously prepared for them. After everybody had congratulated the happy pair, they showed themselves at an angle of the piazza to cut the wedding-cake which stood festal and massive on an adjacent table.

Then at the proper moment the bride's health was proposed by Gerald Marcy with dignity and grace, in pledge of which everybody's glass of champagne was lifted and drained. The bridegroom, goaded into speech, made a few halting remarks expressive of his own happiness and good fortune, ending in a serious tag of chivalrous, if slightly involved, sentiment, which evoked fresh enthusiasm.

Toasts were drunk to the bridesmaids, the parents of the bride, and the Hunt Club. In response to the last of these Mrs. Baxter's brother, Dick Weston, who possessed a deep-toned voice, started the club-song, the words of which had been composed by Andrew Cunningham in his salad days under the inspiration of five Scotches and soda, and been adopted on the occasion of its first delivery as the property of the colony:

So he sang, and everybody joined in the refrain with genial gusto, not excepting the bride—"Miss West Wind" still, in spite of her veil and satin attire—who waved her glass and carolled with the rest, until even the hounds seemed to catch the infection and added their notes to the general jubilation. Then it transpired that stout Miss Marbury had found the ring in her piece of wedding-cake. This was the source of some merriment, amid which the bride slipped away to change her dress, and the guests, left to their own devices, returned to their discussion of the half-digested news.

Gerald Marcy, who had heard it, like everybody else, with mingled revolt and bewilderment, passed from his functions as toast-master to what might be called the storm-centre of the animadversion, a small summer-house or arbor on the trellis of which June roses were blowing, and where the Andrew Cunninghams, Mrs. Cole, the Rev. Percy Ward, and several others were congregated. He arrived just as the rector was exclaiming, with pained fervor:

"We have here the logical fruits of the present-day degenerate readiness to put off one husband or wife in order to marry another. If every clergyman in the land were to bind himself never to perform the marriage service in the case of any recently divorced person, some headway might be made against this social pest—the canker-worm of modern family life."

The symbolic allusion to canker-worms caused nimble-minded Mrs. Cole to glance up involuntarily at the vines to meet some impending danger to her summer finery at the same moment that she replied:

"I don't think it would make much difference, if you'll pardon my saying so, Mr. Ward—with Lydia, I mean. She would be content with a justice of the peace if a clergyman were not forthcoming. But," she continued, with increasing volubility, "what, of course, you wish to know is whether there is anything which will keep people of our sort—not the wives of the toiling masses whose husbands beat them and who feel that they ought to be allowed to solace themselves with a second, but the four hundred, so to speak, and their friends—from trifling with the marriage relation. There's only one remedy, in my opinion, though I don't wish to be understood as advocating it in Lydia's case, for I'm her closest friend, and she isn't here to defend herself. But if, as appearances indicate, she has overstepped the limit—though you all admit that the situation was a tremendous one—the only thing which would cut her to the quick would be if the people whose friendship she values were to turn the cold shoulder on her. That's the only criticism she would really care for, Mr. Ward," she concluded alertly, with her head poised on one side. Mrs. Cole's interest in philosophical discussion was not to be repressed even by her loyalty.

"Ah!" exclaimed the clergyman approvingly. "The force of public opinion! The Church is merely trying to lead public opinion. If public opinion will act of its own accord, so much the better." Mr. Ward, though faithful to his principles, was not averse to let this section of his flock perceive that he welcomed righteousness from whatever source it proceeded, as became a liberal-minded Christian.

"What constitutes public opinion in this country?" asked Gerald Marcy. "One of the evils of universal liberty is that there are no recognized standards of behavior. It is all go-as-you-please."

"Amen," ejaculated the rector.

"Consequently," continued Gerald, pursuing the thread of his contemplation, "a social boycott, such as Mrs. Cole suggests, becomes effective only when the particular set to which an offender belongs chooses to take the initiative—which is awkward, for where exactly is one to draw the line?"

"I, for one, feel as though I never wished to speak to her again," said Mrs. Cunningham.

"She certainly deserves to be cut," said her husband, doughtily. Yet he added, "It would be precious hard to manage, though—not to mention inconvenient—if she comes to live at Norrey's Knoll and everything is patched up according to law."

"There you are, you see!" exclaimed Gerald. "I tell you," he said, with a tug at his mustache, "that it's very difficult to cut people whom one has known all one's life, unless they've committed murder or embezzled."

"It isn't as though she were a bigamist or living in—in violation of the seventh commandment," remarked Mrs. Baxter dreamily, remembering just in time to round out her sentence with decorum for the benefit of Mr. Ward.

The rector jumped at the opportunity offered. "Isn't that just what she is doing? It is precisely that from the Church's point of view."

"If the Church would only pass a canon forbidding us to call on women who get divorced in order to marry someone else, it would be easier to take such a stand," remarked Mrs. Cole.

"But it isn't the divorce I mind so much. It's her selling Guendolen," exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham, with the honesty of her temperament. "We couldn't ostracize her simply because she has got a divorce and married again, for there are so many others." Her tone showed that she realized the impracticability of a social crusade based solely on the existence in the flesh of a previous wife or husband. Yet she yearned for action in this particular case. But what could one woman do alone?

"On the contrary, it seems to me a grand opportunity, ladies," said the clergyman stoutly. "The conduct of the offending parties in this instance represents individual selfishness and license carried to the culminating point. Because you may have neglected to do your duty in respect to the others is no justification for flinching now. It's the whole degraded system, root and branch, which I am fulminating against; but here we have a concrete, monstrous instance which invites action. Is ostracism never to be invoked, as Mr. Marcy intimates, except in the case of the taking of life or where the pocket is affected?"

There was a painful silence. For a wedding reception the discussion was becoming decidedly forensic.

"We must think it over," said Mrs. Cunningham. "If none of us women were to invite her to our houses or go to hers—" She paused without completing her sentence, evidently appalled by the vista of social complications which it opened up.

"There's nothing else in the wide world which Lydia would mind," said Mrs. Cole ruminantly. "But it would break her heart."

"Even a stone can break," Gerald could not refrain from whispering in the speaker's shell-like ear.

"That's not fair. You do not understand her, my friend. She sold Guen to make sure of Harry Spencer." Mrs. Cole answered in the same undertone, "When he is concerned she is a perfect volcano."

"Theoretically," continued the grizzled satirist aloud, with a bow of deference in the direction of the clergyman, "I should like, as a censor of modern social degeneracy, to see it tried, but—but practically it seems to me to be out of the question."

"One woman alone couldn't do it, anyway," blurted out Mrs. Cunningham, in the accents of dogged distress.

Just then the murmurs of a small commotion broke in upon their dialogue, and all eyes were turned in the direction of the front door.

"The bride is going to start, and she has dropped a comb. If she isn't careful, her hair will come down after all!" exclaimed Mrs. Baxter by way of elucidation.

* * * * * *

One forenoon in the month of July, a year later, the lawn-tennis courts of the Westfield Hunt Club were all occupied. The reason was clear; tennis had become the fashionable sport. Some of the younger spirits, who found golf too gentle a form of exercise, had rebelled successfully against the predominance of that pastime. Consequently all the people of every age who try to do what the rest of the world is doing had consigned their golf clubs to the recesses of their hall closets and bought rackets. Until the present year two courts, both of dirt, had amply supplied the needs of the members; indeed, they had often remained vacant for days at a time. Now even four additional courts failed to meet current demands, and everybody wished to play on those made of grass, of which there were but two.

On this particular morning these were in the possession of two pairs of women players, who might be said to represent the antipodes of feminine skill at the game. A couple of the younger matrons, Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Miller, both adepts, were engaged in a close, fast contest. Their balls flew low and swiftly, and their long rallies called forth frequent applause from the spectators, chiefly women, sitting on benches along the side lines or on the piazza, as one or the other of the lithe young women, whose restricted, dainty, diaphanous white skirts seemed almost glued to their figures, would pick up the ball when it appeared to be out of reach by dint of a brilliant dash. The other pair of opponents were Miss Marbury, looking stouter than ever in flannels, and Mrs. Gordon Wallace. They were tossing slow, high lobs and getting very warm in the process. They puffed and panted audibly, although the ball struck the net or flew out of bounds much of the time. Yet they had the satisfaction of knowing that they were in fashion; moreover, they had the sanction of their physicians, who advised the exercise as an antidote against corpulency and rheumatism.

Most of the men had gone to the city. Douglas Hale and Gerald Marcy were on one of the dirt courts, and Walter Cole, who was taking his vacation, was playing golf with Kenneth Post. One solitary woman, Mrs. Cunningham, was on the links with her husband. She had demurred stoutly at the contagion of the new fever, and still remained faithful to the fascination of the royal and ancient game. The centre of club life was undeniably the tennis courts, and thither all those who arrived directed their footsteps.

Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Miller having finished three sets, repaired to an isolated bench to enjoy a soda-lemonade and to cool off under the influences of a friendly chat. Mrs. Reynolds, who, as has been intimated, wore the breath of life in her nostrils, had got slightly the better of her adversary, and was inclined therefore to be on the alert, if not perky. Her ears were the first to detect the whir of an automobile, and she pricked them up. Then the toot of a horn fixed everyone's attention on the approaching monster, for automobiles were still more or less of a novelty, and engendered curiosity. In another instant a huge machine, of bridal white, as Mrs. Baxter subsequently described it, tore around the corner of the road, and, dashing past the occupants of the tennis courts, swept up to the ladies' entrance of the club-house, where it paused, snorting like a huge dragon. It was the largest and most imposing "bubble" which Westfield had gazed upon. Many of the spectators left their places to examine it, and everyone's head was turned in that direction.

A huge machine of bridal white ... tore around the corner.

"It is they!" said Mrs. Reynolds with emphasis; then, after a pause, she asked: "Are you going to-morrow afternoon?"

"I suppose so. As it was a 'request the pleasure,' I had to answer, and we didn't have an engagement. Besides, she has brought home some lovely new tapestries, and we are asked to meet an Eastern soothsayer, who is said to be a marvel at mind-reading. Mrs. Charles Haviland and half a dozen women, who are supposed to be fastidious, are coming from town, so my husband seemed to think we had better go."

"It's because she's artistic that she is forgiven, so my husband says, and of course if everyone else is going to 'Norrey's Knoll' there is no sense in our turning up our noses at the new master and mistress."

"Is Mrs. Cunningham going?" asked Mrs. Miller.

"I hear that Dick Weston has bet Mr. Douglas Hale fifty dollars to twenty-five that she does."

"I suppose Lydia and her husband have come to lunch and play bridge," said Mrs. Miller musingly. "They say she plays wonderfully—almost as well as he does. My husband objects to my playing for money."

"So does mine. He says it is bad form—vulgar for women—and that it is bringing American society down to the level of the four Georges. But how about men? I obey him, because I am of the dutiful kind. But how about men?" she reiterated trenchantly.

Mrs. Miller dodged the question. "I should fall in a fit if I lost seventy-five dollars in an afternoon, as some of them do."

"They say one gets used to it. I have made Alfred promise to give me an automobile as an indemnity for refusing to play. I must be in fashion to that extent anyway."

Mrs. Miller laughed. They were now practically alone. The occupants of the tennis courts, both women and men, had drifted toward the club entrance, where they stood admiring the new machine and exchanging greetings with the newly married owners. The Spencers had been in possession of "Norrey's Knoll"—which Herbert Maxwell had sold to Lydia—about three weeks, and on the morrow were to hold an afternoon reception for the latest social novelty, an Eastern sorceress. From where they sat the two young women were able to perceive what was going on, and presumably it was the sight of the grizzled Gerald Marcy bandying persiflage with Mrs. Spencer which furnished the cue to Mrs. Miller's next remark:

"Mr. Marcy says that 'bridge' is essentially a gambling game," she responded a little mournfully, "and that to play it properly one should play for money, if at all."

"Mr. Marcy says also, my dears, that there are no recognized standards of behavior in this country. It is all go-as-you-please," said a sardonic voice close behind them. They turned in surprise. So absorbed had they been in their dialogue and in watching the arrival of the Spencers that they had failed to notice the approach of Mrs. Andrew Cunningham.

"And he is right," continued that lady, tossing her golf clubs on the grass with a somewhat dejected air. "I am going to surrender."

Thereupon she accepted the space which the others made for her on the bench, and folding her arms turned her gaze in the direction of the white monster and its satellites. The elder matron vouchsafed no immediate key to the riddle she had just enunciated. Mrs. Reynolds stooped, and picking up the bag of golf clubs examined them with an air of one who scans ancient, fusty relics.

"I can't imagine," she said, "how you can keep on playing golf now that everyone is crazy about tennis."

Mrs. Cunningham smiled wanly. "That's what I meant," she answered. "I'm going to begin tennis to-morrow—and I'm also going to Lydia Spencer's reception. My spirit of opposition is broken."

"Yes," continued the mother of the hunt, in an apostrophizing tone, as though she still felt herself on the defensive, "every one is going, and most of the nice people are coming from town. So why should I be stuffy and bite my own nose off? Which goes far to prove, my dears," she added, sententiously, "that the only unpardonable social sin in this country is to lose one's money. Nothing else really counts."

"Oh!" exclaimed the two young women together with animation, as each reflected that Dick Weston had won his bet.