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, 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!”