Their high, cheery babble just paused and caught its note again as Mrs. Budd, hard upon the heels of the maid who had opened the door, fairly pounced upon her belated guests, and sucked them in to a pleasant snapping of talk and wood fires. Her tall, robust figure in its red golf-waistcoat bristled with welcomes. “Now I _know_ you’re drenched! The fog’s a perfect _rain_! I’m _so_ glad.” She kissed Cissy warmly, her eyes snapping meanwhile from Florence to Longacre. “Come straight to the fire. Do come to the fire, Mrs. Essington, and Agnès shall take your wet things.” Alert for impending introductions, she half turned to Florence with the name of a guest at her lips, but Florence had already been cut off from the rest of the party by a large man with his hands in the sagging pockets of an old shooting-coat. He had at the same time, in an incredibly short space, furnished her with tea, and now stood above her while she drank it, rocking softly to and fro on his feet, and talking steadily. Occasionally he gesticulated with a large, open hand. Cissy Fitz Hugh had gone her own way some distance into a number of conversations. It devolved upon Longacre to be led about the circle with a name here and a name there, and a blur of presences that vexed his continental habit, and left him, at the finish, still face to face with his hostess. She promptly cast upon the shore of conversation the first drift of her own interest. “And what in the world has become of _Julia_!” she exclaimed. She almost challenged him with it. “You _would_ think two hours would be enough to ride round ‘Tres Pinos,’ especially with her friends coming—and _all_ this fog!” Her smile stayed with him while her eyes roved to the windows. She was notably expectant, but not, as Longacre seemed to sense it, so anxious as would be natural to a mother whose daughter has chosen the coast road on a thick night. While he said something amiable about the safeness of sand roads and the instinct of a horse, he felt that he was looking hardly less expectant than she. “And where’s dear Julia?” Cissy Fitz Hugh’s voice preceded her into the group. “Oh, Julia—” The name, tossed back and forth, arrested Florence Essington’s attention. “Julia is a very naughty child,” Mrs. Budd happily proclaimed. “She _said_ she would be home by five, and then she made me promise not to wait tea for her.” Her eloquent hands deprecated those of the clock, which pointed to half after six. “And now she’s hardly time to dress for dinner!” “Julia,” said Holden, turning his large head on his shoulder, “may come to dinner in her riding-boots, so long as she comes.” “Just what _I’ve_ always said, Mr. Holden,” Cissy seconded. “Dear Julia—” “Well, there they are!” cried Mrs. Budd, her eyes flying to the door. Holden opened it on the white darkness.