The lawn had been divided into a half-dozen croquet courts, where scores of people dressed in dazzling white clothing ran about chasing colorful wooden balls. Polite applause greeted shots that deftly hooked their way through one or more wickets. The chant of "Poison, poison," arose from the spectators surrounding one court as the Master of that Universe and his green ball stalked prey. Socially correct lies granted solace to those who lost.