Under the McAlister awning, Mrs. McAlister, Hope
and the Farringtons sat in a cozy group, and Mac, close by, was devoting
his small energies to burying his grandfather. The young man stopped to
speak to them for a minute; then he moved away towards the spot where
Phebe sat alone under her umbrella.
"Isn't the surf superb, Miss McAlister?"
She looked up from her book rather ungraciously.
"Yes, it's very fine."
"How does it happen you are not at the golf links?"
"There's a tournament, to-day."
"And you didn't enter?"
"No; they didn't play well enough to make it worth my while."
Deliberately he settled himself at her side.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked. "That book looked rather indigestible for
an August day."
"I prefer it. I can't spend my time over novels," Phebe said.
The strong wind had ruffled her bright hair and deepened the pink in her
cheeks. The young man looked at her admiringly. Up to this time, he had
only seen her in her short blue suit, and he told himself that this
fluffy pink muslin gown was vastly more becoming to her.
"Don't you ever do frivolous things?" he asked in some amusement.
"No. What's the use?"
"There's going to be a dance, next week."
"Is there?" Phebe's tone betrayed no interest in the tidings.
"Yes. I came down to see if I could induce you to go with me.
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