"Vat's mamma," Mac said. "She wants us. Come." And he tugged at Gifford Barrett's hand. "Not just now, old man." "Come. Aunt Teddy's vere, and all ve rest. Come." "Mac!" This time, the voice was more decided. "Yes, mamma; but he won't come." "Mac, come here at once." There was a brief skirmish; then as usual, Mac conquered, and Gifford Barrett was led, an unwilling victim, to the awning where sat Mac's mother, beyond her a serried rank of Mac's relatives and, beyond them all, a tall girl in a black suit who watched him with dancing eyes. The situation was not an easy one. It was Theodora who relieved it. "Isn't this Mr. Gifford Barrett?" she asked, rising to meet him with the easy dignity which she assumed at times and which made her husband feel so proud of her. "You may not remember me, Mrs. Farrington; but I think I met you in New York, two years ago, at a dinner that Mrs. Goodyear gave." And, as she spoke, Theodora was distinctly grateful for the accident which had left a dozen old letters in the tray of her trunk. With a grave courtesy all his own, Gifford Barrett went through the trying ordeal of an introduction in his bathing suit. Even Phebe was forced to admit that he was well-bred, while, in the distance, Cicely capered about madly, half in rapture that the desired meeting had taken place, half in rage that she could not with dignity annex herself to the group. For one short, ecstatic moment, she held her breath; then she vented her feelings by plunging headlong into the next wave and swimming off as fast as she could. Instead of making his bow and then beating the decorous retreat of an eccentric recluse, Mr. Gifford Barrett, the composer of the _Alan Breck Overture_, had deposited his tall form in his rose-colored bathing suit on the sand at Theodora's feet. "No; I thought I wouldn't go in to-day," she said. "I don't care very much about it, when the surf is running so high." "Your sister doesn't seem to mind any amount of surf," Mr. Barrett said, glancing at Phebe. Coming nearer him, one saw that his brown eyes were frank and kindly, that his face was attractive when he smiled. Theodora liked him unreservedly; she even began to remember him a little, in a vague sort of way, and she hoped that Phebe would be in one of her more lenient moods. In vain. "Yes, I like to swim," Phebe said briefly. "Evidently, for no one could swim as you do, without enjoying it," Mr. Barrett observed, with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. "Mr. Drayton swims magnificently, and he hates it." "Is this your first season here at Quantuck?" "Yes." Under cover of her gown Theodora gave Phebe a furtive poke. Phebe turned abruptly and stared at her. "Well?" she asked. "Well what?" Theodora said, with a smile. "What did you want? You poked me; didn't you?" "I beg your pardon. Did I hit you? I get stiff with so long sitting still. Is Quantuck an old ground of yours, Mr. Barrett?"