with a soft, silvery voice that suggested a chinchilla muff painted by
Whistler.

"What do you mean by this time of year?" demanded Mrs. Hatch-Mallard.
"Yew trees look beautiful at all times of the year. That is their great
charm."

"Yew trees never look anything but hideous under any circumstances or at
any time of year," said Mrs. Dole, with the slow, emphatic relish of one
who contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. "They are only fit for
graveyards and cemeteries."

Mrs. Hatch-Mallard gave a sardonic snort, which, being translated, meant
that there were some people who were better fitted for cemeteries than
for garden parties.

"What is the score, please?" asked the lady with the chinchilla voice.

The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotless
white flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude rather
than anxiety.

"What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!" pronounced Mrs.
Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. Hatch-
Mallard. "The young men of to-day are not what they used to be twenty
years ago."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; "twenty years ago Bertie Dykson
was just two years old, and you must expect some difference in appearance
and manner and conversation between those two periods."