"I see Royster & Axtell went up to-day. I reckon," with an insinuating laugh, "there will be some entries withdrawn." "Men or horses?" asked Hungerford. "Both--and men who haven't horses, as well," with a sneering glance at Croyden. "Why, bless me! he's looking at you, Geoffrey!" Hungerford exclaimed. "I am not responsible for the direction of Mr. Mattison's eyes," Croyden answered with assumed good nature. Mattison smiled, maliciously. "Is it so bad as that?" he queried. "I knew, of course, you were hit, but I hoped it was only for a small amount." "Shut up, Mattison!" exclaimed Colloden. "If you haven't any appreciation of propriety, you can at least keep quiet." "Oh, I don't know----" "Don't you?" said Colloden, quietly, reaching across and grasping him by the collar. "Think again,--_and think quickly_!" A sickly grin, half of surprise and half of anger, overspread Mattison's face. "Can't you take a little pleasantry?" he asked. "We don't like your pleasantries any more than we like you, and that is not at all. Take my advice and mend your tongue." He shook him, much as a terrier does a rat, and jammed him back into his chair. "Now, either be good or go home," he admonished. Mattison was weak with anger--so angry, indeed, that he was helpless either to stir or to make a sound. The others ignored him--and, when he was a little recovered, he got up and went slowly from the room. "It wasn't a particularly well bred thing to do," observed Colloden, "but just the same it was mighty pleasant. If it were not for the law, I'd have broken his neck." "He isn't worth the exertion, Roderick," Croyden remarked. "But I'm obliged, old man. I enjoyed it." When they rejoined the ladies on the piazza, a little later, Mattison had gone. After a while, the others went off in their motors, leaving Croyden alone with Miss Cavendish. Hungerford had offered to drop him at the Club, but he had declined. He would enjoy himself a little longer--would give himself the satisfaction of another hour with her, before he passed into outer darkness. He had gone along in his easy, bachelor way, without a serious thought for any woman, until six months ago. Then, Elaine Cavendish came home, after three years spent in out-of-the-way corners of the globe, and, straightway, bound him to her chariot wheels. At least, so the women said--who make it their particular business to observe--and they never make mistakes. They can tell when one is preparing to fall in love, long before he knows himself. Indeed, there have been many men drawn into matrimony, against their own express inclination, merely by the accumulation of initiative engendered by impertinent meddlers. They want none of it, they even fight desperately against it, but, in the end, they succumb.