fourfold scrutiny of a
quartet of ladies sitting as official spectators on a bench immediately
commanding the court. It was one of the accepted conditions of the
Rectory garden party that four ladies, who usually knew very little about
tennis and a great deal about the players, should sit at that particular
spot and watch the game. It had also come to be almost a tradition that
two ladies should be amiable, and that the other two should be Mrs. Dole
and Mrs. Hatch-Mallard.

"What a singularly unbecoming way Eva Jonelet has taken to doing her hair
in," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; "it's ugly hair at the best of times, but
she needn't make it look ridiculous as well. Some one ought to tell
her."

Eva Jonelet's hair might have escaped Mrs. Hatch-Mallard's condemnation
if she could have forgotten the more glaring fact that Eva was Mrs.
Dole's favourite niece. It would, perhaps, have been a more comfortable
arrangement if Mrs. Hatch-Mallard and Mrs. Dole could have been asked to
the Rectory on separate occasions, but there was only one garden party in
the course of the year, and neither lady could have been omitted from the
list of invitations without hopelessly wrecking the social peace of the
parish.

"How pretty the yew trees look at this time of year," interposed a lady
with a soft, silvery voice that suggested a chinchilla muff painted by
Whistler.

"What do you mean by this time of year?" demanded Mrs. Hatch-Mallard.
"Yew trees look beautiful at all times of the year. That is their great
charm."

"Yew trees never look anything but hideous under any circumstances or at
any time of year," said Mrs. Dole, with the slow, emphatic relish of one
who contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. "They are only fit for
graveyards and cemeteries."

Mrs. Hatch-Mallard gave a sardonic snort, which, being translated, meant
that there were some people who were better fitted for cemeteries than
for garden parties.

"What is the score, please?" asked the lady with the chinchilla voice.

The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotless
white flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude rather
than anxiety.

"What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!" pronounced Mrs.
Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. Hatch-
Mallard. "The young men of to-day are not what they used to be twenty
years ago."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; "twenty years ago