"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.