of a high order. It was a man's tennis that the girl was playing and
Reggie Armistead needed all his cleverness to hold her at even terms.
It was an ancient grudge, Markham learned, and an even thing in the
betting, but Armistead pulled through by good passing and made the
sets deuce.

"Gad! It makes me hot to look at 'em!" said Crosby Downs, fingering at
his collar band, his face brick-color from the day in the open. "Make
'em stop, somebody."

He dropped into a wicker chair and fanned vigorously with his hat.

"Lord! Golf is bad enough. Oh, what's the use," he sighed heavily.

"Been golfing, Crosby?" smiled the Countess.

"Oh, call it that if you like," he growled. "Rotten game, that.
Doctor's orders. A hundred and ten to-day. Couldn't hit the earth
even and there were acres of it."

"Living up to your reputation, Crosby," sneered Carol Gouverneur.
"_Sans putt et sans approach_?"

"You've struck it, young man. Sans anything, but that Weary Willie
feelin' and a devourin' thirst. But I lost four pounds," he added
more cheerfully--his fingers demonstrating in his waistband. "Oh,
I'll put it on again to-night at dinner. Silly ass business--this
runnin' around in the sun."

"Quite so," Olga agreed, "but everything we do is silly and asinine."