“Yes, it is lively enough,” said Mr. Ponsonby, one afternoon when they had returned from the polo grounds and were seated on the veranda. Mr. Ponsonby was a middle-aged Englishman, whose diplomatic labors at various courts had worn a bald spot on his crown. Carmen had not yet come, and they were waiting for a cup of tea. “And they ride well; but I think I rather prefer the Wild West Show.” “You Englishmen,” Margaret retorted, “seem to like the uncivilized. Are you all tired of civilization?” “Of some kinds. When we get through with the London season, you know, Mrs. Henderson, we like to rough it, as you call it, for some months. But, 'pon my word, I can't see much difference between Washington and Newport.” “We might get up a Wild West Show here, or a prize-fight, for you. Do you know, Mr. Ponsonby, I think it will take full another century for women to really civilize men.” “How so?” “Get the cruelty and love of brutal sports out of them.” “Then you'd cease to like us. Nothing is so insipid, I fancy, to a woman as a man made in her own image.” “Well, what have you against Newport?” “Against it? I'm sure nothing could be better than this.” And Mr. Ponsonby allowed his adventurous eyes to rest for a moment upon Margaret's trim figure, until he saw a flush in her face. “This prospect,” he added, turning to the sea, where a few sails took the slant rays of the sun. “'Where every prospect pleases,”' quoted Margaret, “'and only man--'” “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Henderson; men are not to be considered. The women in Newport would make the place a paradise even if it were a desert.” “That is another thing I object to in men.” “What's that?” “Flattery. You don't say such things to each other at the club. What is your objection to Newport?” “I didn't say I had any. But if you compel me well, the whole thing seems to be a kind of imitation.” “How?” “Oh, the way things go on--the steeple-chasing and fox-hunting, and the carts, and the style of the swell entertainments. Is that ill-natured?” “Not at all. I like candor, especially English candor. But there is Miss Eschelle.” Carmen drove up with Count Crispo, threw the reins to the groom, and reached the ground with a touch on the shoulder of the count, who had alighted to help her down. “Carmen,” said Margaret, “Mr. Ponsonby says that all Newport is just an imitation.” “Of course it is. We are all imitations, except Count Crispo. I'll bet a cup of tea against a pair of gloves,” said Carmen, who had facility in picking up information, “that Mr. Ponsonby wasn't born in England.” Mr. Ponsonby looked redder than usual, and then laughed, and said, “Well, I was only three years old when I left Halifax.” “I knew it!” cried Carmen, clapping her hands. “Now come in and have a cup of English breakfast tea. That's imitation, too.” “The mistake you made,” said Margaret, “was not being born in Spain.” “Perhaps it's not irreparable,” the count interposed, with an air of gallantry.