that the courts were too soft to be used; there was a certain odour of
rain-soaked clothes in the huge room, ascendant even above the smell
of cigarettes. Altogether, it was a night that owed much to the
weather.

Mrs. Scudaway, dashing horsewoman and exponent of the free rein, was
repeating the latest story concerning an intimate friend of every one
present--and, consequently, absent.

"She's just sailed for Europe, and that good-looking actor friend of
the family happened to go on the same steamer," she was saying with a
joyous smile.

"Accidents will happen," remarked some one, benevolently.

"Where's her husband? I haven't seen him with her in months," came
from one of the men.

"Oh, they have two children, you know," explained Mrs. Scudaway.

"Delicate, I hear," said Miss Ratliff.

"Naturally; he nurses them," said Mrs. Scudaway, blowing smoke half-
way across the room through her delicate nostrils.

"I say, Mrs. Scudaway," cried the rapt bore, "don't you ever do
anything but inhale?"

"Yes, I exhale occasionally. No, thanks," as he held forth an ash
tray. Then she flecked the ashes into the fireplace, ten feet away.