Flint and Winifred Anstice turned and looked at each other. What it meant, I don't know; but I saw her color up to her hair. The others had turned away for a moment to watch a schooner which had just come in sight round the Point. Flint went up close to Winifred and said: "And you--what will you have?" "Your pardon." "That you cannot have, for you don't need it. Will you take my thanks instead?" "You are too generous." "With thanks?--that is easy. They are 'the exchequer of the poor.'" "I trust, Mr. Flint," said Professor Anstice, who, having withdrawn his attention from the schooner, could now bring it to bear nearer home,--"I trust we may not altogether lose sight of you after these pleasant days together, I shall be glad--" "Papa!" "Yes, my dear, I know you should be included. My daughter and I will be glad to see you at our house on Stuyvesant Square." With this he pulled out a card, but, discovering in time that it contained the address of his typewriter, he returned it to his pocket and substituted his own. "I thank you," said Flint, with more of human heartiness in his voice than I had ever heard before,--"I thank you, and I shall not fail to avail myself of the privilege. Here comes the carryall! Good-bye!" A moment later he was gone. Dr. Cricket goes by the night boat this evening, and Philip Brady leaves on Monday. How dull we shall be! CHAPTER XII "PIPPA PASSES" The train for New York came along duly, and Flint clambered into it as quickly as the impediment of his luggage permitted. He stowed away his belongings in the car-rack,--his bag, umbrella, and the overcoat which seemed a sarcasm upon the torrid heat of the car. A flat, square package which formed part of his luggage he treated with more respectful courtesy, giving it the window-seat, and watching with care lest it slip from the position in which he had propped it. When the engine ceased to puff, and the bell to ring, when the wheels began to revolve and the landscape to move slowly out of sight, Flint leaned out of the window for one more glance at the dull little cluster of houses, beautiful only for what it connoted; then he drew in his head, and settled himself against the cushions of wool plush to which railroad companies treat their passengers in August. He was not in an enviable frame of mind. He felt like a fool who had been masquerading as a martyr. He had given up two weeks of vacation, of rest and comfort and health-giving breezes fresh from the uncontaminable ocean, to go back to the noisy pavements, the clanging car-bells, the noisome odors of the city,--and all for what? Simply because a jealous fisherman and a hysterically sympathetic young woman chose to foist it upon him as his duty.