Jack Lansdale had a fresh, unspoiled baritone voice of pleasant quality. He was quite a shining light among a not inconsiderable number of musical people. A genial, robust, dark-haired young man was Jack, who was as much at home in sailing a yacht as in guiding a dance, and who was as ready to go off for a tramp with a boon companion as to sit on the rocks in the moonlight and pay compliments to a pretty girl, consequently, as he was good-looking as well as athletic he was in much demand. To his credit be it said that he was most accommodating and seldom refused to sing when an accompanist could be found, but this was holiday time and even the most enthusiastic musician could not be expected always to be ready for a day's sailing, to play accompaniments or dance music, therefore it was sometimes rather difficult to find one willing to be pressed into service. Flossy Fay, however, had assiduously charged herself to learn his accompaniments, and had made such diligent use of her hour at the piano in the hall that she felt herself equipped to play the part of understudy when occasion should offer. This evening it had arrived, and her triumph was complete, for what more delightfully intimate than to follow a voice dependent upon her skill in accompanying?
After Jack's first songs, came a violin solo, then there were more songs. At the last moment, the missing pianist, Tom Belden, rushed in ready to supersede Flossy at the piano, but she clung to her rights, and the sturdy Tom retired to the back of the hall, to appear later to help out with the dances.
One swift glance at a seat near the door showed Gwen that Kenneth was in the audience, but he had disappeared by the time the chairs were pushed back and the dancing had begun. As usual Mr. Mitchell divided himself between Gwen and Ethel, though Gwen remembered afterward that to her share had fallen fewer dances than usual, and that Mr. Mitchell and Ethel had sat out more than one dance on the porch. These little informal affairs always closed early and ten o'clock saw the lanterns bobbing in various directions as the dancers wended their way home over uneven paths. Usually a party of them tarried for awhile at the ice-cream saloon, where delectable ices were to be had, and where the sweets were highly approved. It was a cosy little place, the "saloon" proper being divided from the small shop by portieres of antique make and design, these being nothing more nor less than hand-woven blue-and-white counterpanes, heirlooms in the family of Timson. This evening, however, Gwen did not join the other young people at the favorite resort but jogged along with the Misses Gray. There was a trip to Portland to be undertaken the next day, and she must be up and off betimes in order to get through the day's shopping which had become a necessity.
It was not an unpleasant duty to seek the tidy bright little city, which always had the air of being freshly washed and dressed, for one generally found some pleasant neighbor to chat with on the way, and even the slow-going steamboat, winding in and out among the islands of Casco Bay, was not a bad place to rest in after a day's rushing about from shop to shop. If the weather were good there was no more charming series of views than those in which fair islands, rippling water, and distant wooded shores found a place. Sails made rosy by the setting sun, golden gleams along sandy beaches, sun-touched rocks, and emerald sea gave such color as delighted most of those who sought these favored shores, and Gwen's was the most ardently nature-loving soul among them.
She glanced over the assemblage of those who had congregated upon the upper deck, but seeing no vacant place upon the side she preferred, she went down stairs. The little cabin was full of shoppers with baskets and bundles, women with babies, travellers with bags, but she had no desire to stay cooped up within, so she stepped out upon the little narrow deck usually unfrequented by passengers. There were but three occupying chairs here; one was a stalwart man surrounded by huge parcels, another was a portly woman who had settled herself in the midst of a collection of bundles, boxes and bags. Between these two, and quite aloof, sat Kenneth Hilary. A vacant stool was between him and the portly woman. Gwen's mind was quickly made up. She climbed over a huge coil of rope in her way, circumnavigated, as well as she could, the collection of bundles, boxes and bags, possessed herself of the vacant stool and sat down, planting her own bag firmly in front of her. Then turning around she said demurely, "Good evening, Mr. Hilary."
"GOOD EVENING, MR. HILARY."
He looked around quickly. There was no escape. The ponderous man had hedged himself in securely at one end, the stout woman's array of goods formed a barrier at the other, and even supposing he were to brave the dangers that Gwen had done, he must incommode the girl herself and show himself distinctly rude. There was nothing to do but accept the situation. "Good evening," he said and then silence fell.