And yet they must have been amazed at the activity of this season of repose, the endurance of American women who rode to the fox meets, were excited spectators of the polo, played lawn-tennis, were incessantly dining and calling, and sat through long dinners served with the formality and dullness and the swarms of liveried attendants of a royal feast.  And they could not but admire the young men, who did not care for politics or any business beyond the chances of the stock exchange, but who expended an immense amount of energy in the dangerous polo contests, in riding at fences after the scent-bag, in driving tandems and four-in-hands, and yet had time to dress in the cut and shade demanded by every changing hour.

Formerly the annual chronicle of this summer pageant, in which the same women appeared day after day, and the same things were done over and over again, Margaret used to read with a contempt for the life; but that she enjoyed it, now she was a part of it, shows that the chroniclers for the press were unable to catch the spirit of it, the excitement of the personal encounters that made it new every day.  Looking at a ball is quite another thing from dancing.

“Yes, it is lively enough,” said Mr. Ponsonby, one afternoon when they had returned from the polo grounds and were seated on the veranda.  Mr. Ponsonby was a middle-aged Englishman, whose diplomatic labors at various courts had worn a bald spot on his crown.  Carmen had not yet come, and they were waiting for a cup of tea.  “And they ride well; but I think I rather prefer the Wild West Show.”

“You Englishmen,” Margaret retorted, “seem to like the uncivilized.  Are you all tired of civilization?”

“Of some kinds.  When we get through with the London season, you know, Mrs. Henderson, we like to rough it, as you call it, for some months.  But, ’pon my word, I can’t see much difference between Washington and Newport.”

“We might get up a Wild West Show here, or a prize-fight, for you.  Do you know, Mr. Ponsonby, I think it will take full another century for women to really civilize men.”

“How so?”

“Get the cruelty and love of brutal sports out of them.”

“Then you’d cease to like us.  Nothing is so insipid, I fancy, to a woman as a man made in her own image.”

“Well, what have you against Newport?”

“Against it?  I’m sure nothing could be better than this.”  And Mr. Ponsonby allowed his adventurous eyes to rest for a moment upon Margaret’s trim figure, until he saw a flush in her face.  “This prospect,” he added, turning to the sea, where a few sails took the slant rays of the sun.

“‘Where every prospect pleases,"’ quoted Margaret, “‘and only man—­’”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Henderson; men are not to be considered.  The women in Newport would make the place a paradise even if it were a desert.”

“That is another thing I object to in men.”