He took Emily and Susan to polo and tennis games, and, when the season at the hotel opened, they went regularly to the dances.  In July Peter went to Tahoe, where Mrs. Saunders planned to take the younger girls later for at least a few weeks’ stay.  Ella chaperoned them to Burlingame for a week of theatricals; all three staying with Ella’s friend, Mrs. Keith, whose daughter, Mary Peacock, had also Dolly Ripley and lovely Isabel Wallace for her guests.  Little Constance Fox, visiting some other friends nearby, was in constant attendance upon Miss Ripley, and Susan thought the relationship between them an extraordinary study; Miss Ripley bored, rude, casual, and Constance increasingly attentive, eager, admiring.

“When are you going to come and spend a week with me?” drawled Miss Ripley to Susan.

“You’ll have the loveliest time of your life!” Connie added, brilliantly.  “Be sure you ask me for that week, Dolly!”

“We’ll write you about it,” Miss Ripley said lazily, and Constance, putting the best face she could upon the little slight, slapped her hand playfully, and said: 

“Oh, aren’t you mean!”

“Dolly takes it so for granted that I’m welcome at her house at any time,” said Constance to Susan, later, “that she forgets how rude a thing like that can sound!” She had followed Susan into her own room, and now stood by the window, looking down a sun-steeped vista of lovely roads and trees and gardens with a discontented face.  Susan, changing her dress for an afternoon on the tennis-courts, merely nodded sympathetically.

“Lord, I would like to go this afternoon!” added Constance, presently.

“Aren’t you going over for the tennis?” Susan asked in amazement.  For the semi-finals of the tournament were to be played on this glorious afternoon, and there would be a brilliant crowd on the courts and tea at the club to follow.

“No; I can’t!” Miss Fox said briefly.  “Tell everyone that I’m lying down with a terrible headache, won’t you?”

“But why?” asked Susan.  For the headache was obviously a fiction.

“You know that mustard-colored linen with the black embroidery that Dolly’s worn once or twice, don’t you?” asked Connie, with apparent irrelevancy.

Susan nodded, utterly at a loss.

“Well, she gave it to me to-day, and the hat and the parasol,” said Constance, with a sort of resigned bitterness.  “She said she had got the outfit at Osbourne’s, last month, and she thought it would look stunning on me, and wouldn’t I like to wear it to the club this afternoon?”

“Well—?” Susan said, as the other paused.  “Why not?”

“Oh, why not!” echoed Connie, with mild exasperation.  “Don’t be a damned fool!”

“Oh, I see!” Susan said, enlightened.  “Everybody knows it’s Miss Ripley’s, of course!  She probably didn’t think of that!”

“She probably did!” responded Connie, with a rather dry laugh.  “However, the fact remains that she’ll take it out of me if I go and don’t wear it, and Mamma never will forgive me if I do!  So, I came in to borrow a book.  Of course, Susan, I’ve taken things from Dolly Ripley before, and I probably will again,” she added, with the nearest approach to a sensible manner that Susan had ever seen in her, “but this is going a little too far!”