Jim squeezed his father's hand and shook his head and turned to the drink which had arrived. He took it from the tray to his chair and sat meditating Newport across the top of his glass. Between the rail of the deck and the edge of the awning he saw a long slice of it. It was vanity and emptiness to him. He spoke at length. “Fact is, folks, I've got to go back to New York or somewhere.” “Good Lord!” his father said. “I'm all mixed up in a golf tournament. I think I've got a chance to lick the boots off old Wainwright.” “Oh dear!” sighed Mrs. Dyckman, “there's to be the most interesting lecture by that Hindu poet. And it's so much more comfortable here than ashore. This boat is the coziest you've ever had.” “Stay here, darling,” said Jim. “I'll make you a present of her.” “Oh, that's glorious,” said Mrs. Dyckman. “I've never had a yacht of my own. It's a shame to take it from you, but you can get another. And of course you'll always be welcome here--which is more than a certain other big Dyckman will be if he doesn't look sharp.” “For the Lord's sake, Jim, don't give it to her. She's the meanest old miser about her own things.” Dyckman senior pushed his chair back against the rail. “Watch out!” Mrs. Dyckman gasped. “You're scraping the paint off my yacht.” Jim rose again. “I've just about time to make the last train for the day,” he said. His mother sat up and clutched at his hand. “Can't I help you, honey? Please let me! What is the matter?” “The matter is I'm a lunkhead and Newport bores me stiff. That's all. Don't worry. I'll go get the packing started.” He went along the deck, and his parents helplessly craned their necks after him. His father groaned. Jim had “everything.” There was nothing to get for him, no toy to buy to divert him with. “He wants a new toy, and he doesn't know what it is,” said the old man. But Jim wanted an old toy on a shelf too high for his reach. He ran away from the sight of it. And Dyckman was fleeing to Charity's next resting-place, after all, for she also returned in a few days to New York. She was restive under the goad to return to France. She repented her selfish neglect of the children of all ages she had adopted abroad. One thing held her back--the dread of putting the ocean again between her and her husband. She thought it small of her to leave so many heroes to suffer without her ministrations, in order that she might prevent one non-hero from having too good a time without her ministrations. But womankind has never been encouraged to adopt the policy of the greatest good to the greatest number. Hardly! Charity was conscience-smitten, however, and she cast about for a way to absolve herself. Money is the old and ever-reliable way of paying debts physical, moral, and religious. Charity determined to arrange some big fete to bring in a heap of money for the wounded of France, the blind fathers, and the fatherless children.