Kathleen Thompson Norris

Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby By Kathleen Thompson Norris

Motor cars swept incessantly back and forth on the smooth roadway; a few riders, their horses wheeling and dancing, went down the bridle path, and there was a sprinkling of young men and women and some shouting and clapping on the tennis-courts. But golf was the order of the day. At the first tee at least two scores of impatient players waited their turn to drive off, and at the last green a group of twenty or thirty men and women, mostly women, were interestedly watching the putting. Mrs. Archibald Buckney, a large, generously made woman of perhaps fifty, who stood a little apart from the group, with two young women and a mild-looking blond young man, suddenly interrupted a general discussion of scores and play with a personality. "Is Clarence Breckenridge playing to-day, I wonder? Anybody seen him?" "Must be," said the more definite of the two rather indefinite girls, with an assumption of bright interest.