“I don’t care a whoop what McAlpine says,” roared an irascible gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace; “a man ought to use a midiron when he gets that kind of a lie.  Nobody but an ass would take a brassie.  He’s—–­”

“Just listen to that blethering idiot,” said young Rolfe to the lady beside him.  “He ought to be choked.”

“I like the way you speak of my husband,” she responded gaily.

“Oh, I forgot.  He is your husband, isn’t he?” Then, after a moment’s easy contemplation of the pretty young woman and a scornful glance at the golfer:  “Lucky, but a very poor watchdog.”

“He barks beautifully,” resented the young wife, with a loyal grimace.

“That’s why you’re not afraid of him,” he said quickly.

“Don’t you think he’d bite?”

“They never do.”

“Well, you just try him, that’s all,” remarked the young wife coldly, rising and moving away, a touch of red in her cheeks.

“I will,” he sang out genially, as he crossed his legs and stretched his feet out to the fire.  She looked back with a mirthless smile on her lips.

The man at the piano struck up the insidious “La Mattchiche,” suggestive of the Bal Tabarin and other Fourteenth of July devotions.

“Don’t play that, Barkley,” complained the big man, as every one began beating time to the fascinating air.  “I’m trying to forget Paris.”

“Can you ever forget that night in Maxim’s—–­” began Mrs. Scudaway.

“I recall the next day more vividly,” he interrupted.

“Changing the subject,” inserted the amiable bore, his moon-face beaming, “I see that the Thursdales have opened their place across the ravine.  Isn’t it rather early for them to leave town for the summer?”

“They come out every year about this time.”

“Lot of people will be opening their places next week.  I saw Mrs. Gorgus to-day.  She says they’re putting her house in shape—–­”

“Impossible!” cried Mrs. Tanner.  “It hasn’t any shape.”

“The only thing that could put the Gorgus house in shape is an earthquake.  Who was the architect of that abortion?” demanded Rolfe.

“Denison.  He’s an impressionist.”

“The Thursdales have a new French car.  Have you seen it?  Eleanor ran over here in it this afternoon with her Englishman.  Showing off both of her novelties at once, d’ye see?” said Carter, the tennis player.

“I understand the thing’s a go—­sure go,” said the big man.  “In the fall some time.  He’s a rather decent chap, too.”

“And, what’s better, if his brother and his cousin should happen to die, he’ll be a duke.”

“If they’re as healthy as he seems to be, there’ll be nothing doing for him.”

A good-looking young fellow, who had been staring at the fire all evening, moved uneasily in his lounging chair.  Several quick glances were sent to where he sat moodily apart from the others, and then surreptitious winks and nudges were exchanged.