I do not know just what mode of locomotion they employed. It was in the early days of the automobile and Johnny McComas was one of the first men in town to have one. I recall, in fact, some of his initial experiences with it. On a Sunday afternoon I encountered him in one of these still relatively unstudied contraptions on a frequented driveway. Another man was sitting beside him patiently. The conveyance was making no progress at all. Fortunately it had stopped close enough to the curb not to interfere with the progress of other and more familiar equipages. "We're stuck," said Johnny, jovially, as he caught sight of me. "Ran for three or four miles slick as a whistle--and look at us now!" It entertained him--a kink in a new toy. And he enjoyed the interest of the people collected about. "You're gummed up, I expect," said I. In those days nobody knew much about the new creature and its habits, and one man's guess was as good as another's. Two or three bystanders eyed me deferentially, as a probable expert. "Likely enough," he agreed--and that made me an expert beyond doubt. "But this will do for to-day. We've been here twenty minutes." He had the car pushed to a near-by stable, amidst the mixed emotions of the little crowd, and next day he had it hauled home. "You were right," he said, when I met him out again in it, a week later. "It _was_ gummed up, so to speak; but it's working like a charm to-day. Get in and I'll take you a few miles. That other fellow got an awful grouch." It may have been by this machine, or by some more familiar mode of locomotion, that the two women reached the country club and its tennis tournament. Gertrude Prince strolled through its grounds and galleries with the aloof and amused air of one touring through a foreign town--a town never seen before and likely to be left behind altogether within an hour or two. It was at once semi-smart and semi-simple. She took it lightly, even condescendingly; and when Johnny McComas himself appeared somewhat later and set them down at a little marble table near a fountain-jet and offered cocktails as a preliminary to a variety of sandwiches, she decided, after looking about and seeing a few other ladies with glasses before them on other little marble tables, to accept. It was a lark in some town of the provinces--Meaux or Melun; what difference did it make? They formed a little group altogether to Johnny's liking. His wife was dressed dashingly; his wife's guest made a very fair second; he himself, although he never lifted a racquet, was in the tennis garb of that day. "You both look ripping," he declared with hearty satisfaction. To look thus, before competing items in the throng, was the object of the place, the reason for its developing _mise en scene_. Johnny himself looked ripping--cool, confident, content, and at the top of his days. "It was amusing...." said Gertrude to me, with an upward inflection, a week later. And she asked me for more about Johnny McComas.