"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.