commanding the best view, "this is the turf."

"That," corrected Mr. Mangles, pointing down to the lawn with his
umbrella, "is the turf. This is the grand-stand."

"The whole," stated Miss Mangles, rather sadly, and indicating with a
graceful wave of her card, which was in Russian and therefore illegible
to her, the scene in general, "the whole constitutes the turf."

Joseph P. Mangles sat corrected, and looked lugubriously at Netty, who
was prettily and quietly dressed in autumnal tints, which set off her
delicate and transparent complexion to perfection. Her hair was itself
of an autumnal tint, and her eyes of the deep blue of October skies.

"And these young men are on it," concluded Miss Mangles, with her usual
decision. One privilege of her sex she had not laid aside--the privilege
of jumping to conclusions. Netty glanced beneath her dark lashes in the
direction indicated by Miss Mangles's inexorable finger; but some of the
young men happening to look up, she instantly became interested in the
Russian race-card which she could not read.

"It is very sad," she said.

Miss Mangles continued to look at the young men severely, as if making
up her mind how best to take them in hand.

"Don't see the worst of 'em here," muttered Mr. Mangles, dismally. "It
isn't round about the grand-stand that young men come to grief--on the
turf. That contingent is waiting to be called up into the boxes, and
reformed--by the young women."