carefully calculated boyishness, "and what I mean to say is, she's
never had a fair deal!"

There was a little murmur of assent and admiration at this, and
only one voice disputed it.

"You're not called upon to defend Billy Breckenridge, Vivian,"
said Elinor Vanderwall, in her cool, amused voice. "Nobody's
blaming Billy, and Rachael Breckenridge can stand on her own feet.
But what we're saying is that Clarence, in spite of what they do
to protect him, will get himself dropped by decent people if he
goes on as he IS going on! He was tennis champion four or five
years ago; he played against an Englishman named Waters, who was
about half his age; it was the most remarkable thing I ever saw--"

"Wonderful match!" said Peter Pomeroy, as she paused.

"Wonderful--I should say so!" Miss Vanderwall sighed admiringly at
the memory. "Do you remember that one set went to nineteen--
twenty-one? Each man won on his own service--'most remarkable
match I ever saw! But Clarence Breckenridge couldn't hold a racket
now, and his game of bridge is getting to be absolutely rotten.
Crime, I call it!"

Vivian Sartoris offered no further remark. Indeed she had drifted
into a low-toned conversation with a young man on the fender.
Elinor Vanderwall was neither pretty nor rich, and she was
unmarried at thirty-four, her social importance being further
lessened by the fact that she had five sisters, all unmarried,
too, except Anna, the oldest, whose son was in college. Anna was