"He was just back of the Whitmans' awning for a long time. After that, he came down to Mr. Drayton and talked to him. I didn't see him speak to anybody else, though."
"Oh," Hubert said suddenly; "I know the man you mean, Allyn. There is a good deal of him, too. Sam Asquith told me he had just come to the hotel. He is a composer and hails from New York."
"What is his name?" Theodora asked rather indifferently.
"Gifford Barrett."
"Oh!" There was a clatter, as Cicely dropped her knife and fork and clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Really?"
"Is it so painful as all that, Cis?" Allyn inquired.
"Pain! It's utter rapture. I've always felt that, if I could just once look at Gifford Barrett, I could die happy. Do you know who he is, you ignorant ones?"
The others owned up to their mental darkness; but Theodora said vaguely,—
"Seems to me I met him once. The name is half-way familiar."
Cicely groaned.