me a cropper" at the last meet of the Long
Island Hunt Club, and been extricated from a slough several feet deep.

This was explained to Montague by the young lady on his left--the one
whose half-dressed condition caused his embarrassment. She was only
about twenty, with a wealth of golden hair and the bright, innocent
face of a child; he had not yet learned her name, for every one called
her "Cherub." Not long after this she made a remark across the table to
Baby de Mille, a strange jumble of syllables, which sounded like
English, yet was not. Miss de Mille replied, and several joined in,
until there was quite a conversation going on. "Cherub" explained to
him that "Baby" had invented a secret language, made by transposing
letters; and that Ollie and Bertie were crazy to guess the key to it,
and could not.

The dinner lasted until late. The wine-glasses continued to be emptied,
and to be magically filled again. The laughter was louder, and now and
then there were snatches of singing; women lolled about in their
chairs-one beautiful boy sat gazing dreamily across the table at
Montague, now and then closing his eyes, and opening them more and more
reluctantly. The attendants moved about, impassive and silent as ever;
no one else seemed to be cognizant of their existence, but Montague
could not help noticing them, and wondering what they thought of it all.

When at last the party broke up, it was because the bridge-players
wished to get settled for the evening. The others gathered in front of
the fireplace, and smoked and chatted. At home, when one planned a
day's hunting, he went to bed early and rose before dawn; but here, it
seemed, there was game a-plenty, and the hunters had nothing to
consider save their own comfort.

The cards were played in the vaulted "gun-room." Montague strolled
through it, and his eye ran down the wall, lined with glass cases and
filled with every sort of firearm known to the hunter. He recalled,
with a twinge of self-abasement, that he had suggested bringing his
shotgun along!

He joined a group in one corner, and lounged in the shadows, and
studied "Billy" Price, whose conversation had so mystified him.
"Billy," whose father was a banker, proved to be a devotee of horses;
she was a veritable Amazon, the one passion of whose life was glory.
Seeing her sitting in this group, smoking cigarettes, and drinking
highballs, and listening impassively to risque stories, one might
easily draw bas