With a grave courtesy all his own, Gifford Barrett went through the trying ordeal of an introduction in his bathing suit. Even Phebe was forced to admit that he was well-bred, while, in the distance, Cicely capered about madly, half in rapture that the desired meeting had taken place, half in rage that she could not with dignity annex herself to the group. For one short, ecstatic moment, she held her breath; then she vented her feelings by plunging headlong into the next wave and swimming off as fast as she could. Instead of making his bow and then beating the decorous retreat of an eccentric recluse, Mr. Gifford Barrett, the composer of the Alan Breck Overture, had deposited his tall form in his rose-colored bathing suit on the sand at Theodora's feet.
"No; I thought I wouldn't go in to-day," she said. "I don't care very much about it, when the surf is running so high."
"Your sister doesn't seem to mind any amount of surf," Mr. Barrett said, glancing at Phebe.
Coming nearer him, one saw that his brown eyes were frank and kindly, that his face was attractive when he smiled. Theodora liked him unreservedly; she even began to remember him a little, in a vague sort of way, and she hoped that Phebe would be in one of her more lenient moods. In vain.
"Yes, I like to swim," Phebe said briefly.
"Evidently, for no one could swim as you do, without enjoying it," Mr.
Barrett observed, with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish.
"Mr. Drayton swims magnificently, and he hates it."
"Is this your first season here at Quantuck?"
"Yes."
Under cover of her gown Theodora gave Phebe a furtive poke. Phebe turned abruptly and stared at her.