George Keets and the May Girl came in from their walk just before supper. Judging from their personal appearances it had at least been a long walk if not a serene one. George Keets indeed seemed quite unnecessarily intent in the vestibule on taking the May Girl to task for what he evidently considered her somewhat careless method of storing away her afternoon's accumulation of pebble and shell. Every accent of his voice, every carefully enunciated syllable reminded me only too absurdly of what the May Girl had confided to me about "boys always trying to make her feel small." He was urging her now, I inferred, to stop and sort out her specimens according to some careful cotton-batting plan which he suggested. "Whatever is worth doing at all, you know, Miss Davies," he said, "is worth doing well." The May Girl's voice sounded very tired, not irritable, but very tired. "Oh, if there's anything in the world that I hate," I heard her cry out, "it's that proverb! What people really mean by it," she protested, "is, 'Whatever's worth doing at all is worth doing _Swell_.' And it isn't either! I tell you I like simple things best! All I ever want to do with my shells tonight is just to chuck 'em behind the door!" Truly if Claude Kennilworth hadn't turned up for supper all in white flannels and looking like a young god, I don't know just what I should have done. Everybody seemed either so tired or so distrait. The tide would be low at ten o'clock. It was eight when we sat down to supper. Ann Woltor I'm sure never took her eyes from the clock. But to be perfectly frank everybody else at the table except the May Girl seemed to be diverting such attention as he or she retained to the personal appearance of Claude Kennilworth. Truly it wasn't right that anyone who had been so hateful all day long should be able to look so perfectly glorious in the evening. "Where did you get the suit?" said Rollins. "Is it your own?" "And the permanent wave?" questioned the Bride. "I think you and the ocean must patronize the same hair dresser." "Dark men always do look so fine in white flannels," whispered Ann Woltor to my Husband. "Personally," beamed Paul Brenswick, "you look to me like a person who had imported his own Turkish bath." "Turkish?" scoffed George Keets. "Nobody works up a shine like that by being washed only in one language! Russian, too, it must be! Flemish----" "Flemish are rabbits," observed the May Girl gravely. But even with this observation she did not lift her eyes from her plate. Whether she was consciously and determmingly ignoring Claude Kennilworth's only too palpable efforts to impress her with the fact that now at last he was ready to forgive her and subjugate her, or whether she really hadn't noticed him, I couldn't quite make out. And then quite suddenly at the end of her first course she put down her knife and fork and folded her hands in her lap. "Where is Allan John?" she demanded.