Vivian Sartoris, girlishly perched on the great square leather

fender that framed the fireplace, was merely a modern, a very

modern, little girl, demurely dressed in the smartest of white

taffeta ruffles, with her small feet in white silk stockings and

shoes, a daring little black-and-white hat mashed down upon her

soft, loose hair, and, slung about her shoulders, a woolly coat of

clearest lemon yellow. Vivian gave the impression of a soft little

watchful cat, unfriendly, alert, selfish. Her manner was studiedly

rowdyish, her speech marred by slang; she loved only a few persons

in the world besides herself. One of these few persons, however,

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was Clarence Breckenridge's daughter, Carol, affectionately known

to all these persons as "Billy," and it was in Miss Breckenridge's

defence that Vivian was speaking now. A general yet desultory

discussion of the three Breckenridges had been going on for some

moments. And some particular criticism of the man of the family

had pierced Miss Sartoris' habitual attitude of bored silence.

"That's all true about him," she said, idly spreading a sturdy

little hand to the blaze. "I have no use for Clarence

Breckenridge, and I think Mrs. Breckenridge is absolutely the most

cold-blooded woman I ever met! She always makes me feel as if she

were waiting to see me make a fool of myself, so that she could

smile that smooth superior smile at me. But Carol's different--

she's square, she is; she's just top-hole--if you know what I

mean--she's the finest ever," finished Miss Sartoris, with a

carefully calculated boyishness, "and what I mean to say is, she's

never had a fair deal!"

There was a little murmur of assent and admiration at this, and

only one voice disputed it.

"You're not called upon to defend Billy Breckenridge, Vivian,"

said Elinor Vanderwall, in her cool, amused voice. "Nobody's

blaming Billy, and Rachael Breckenridge can stand on her own feet.

But what we're saying is that Clarence, in spite of what they do

to protect him, will get himself dropped by decent people if he

goes on as he IS going on! He was tennis champion four or five

years ago; he played against an Englishman named Waters, who was

about half his age; it was the most remarkable thing I ever saw--"

"Wonderful match!" said Peter Pomeroy, as she paused.

"Wonderful--I should say so!" Miss Vanderwall sighed admiringly at

the memory. "Do you remember that one set went to nineteen--

twenty-one? Each man won on his own service--'most remarkable

match I ever saw! But Clarence Breckenridge couldn't hold a racket

now, and his game of bridge is getting to be absolutely rotten.

Crime, I call it!"