"Knew what he meant!" exclaimed Violet, indignantly, and suddenly breaking away from her aunt's embrace, she ran toward the house and disappeared.
Mrs. Wright followed the fleeing form with her eyes, and nodded gently.
"I thought so. Only just in time," she said to herself. The seed was dropped, and even though the ground did have to be harrowed to get the necessary depth, it was better so.
The evening was as beautiful as Edgar Fabian had foreseen. One of the many charms of Brewster's Island was the habit the wind had of lulling at sunset, often making the evening air milder than that of day.
To-night the sun had sunk in a clear sky behind the White Mountains. All the family at the Wright cottage had come out after supper to see the Presidential Range, ninety miles away, silhouetted black against the golden glory.
"One can breathe here," thought Philip. "One can breathe here." He wondered if Kathleen were watching the sunset.
"Oh, but turn around," cried Violet suddenly. "This is a three-ringed circus. One should live on a pivot here on a clear night."
Phil turned obediently, and saw the waters dashing against a huge disk of pale gold.
Kathleen, lying in her hammock, arm folded beneath her head, was also watching the moon.
Edgar sat near her on the steps, smoking his third cigarette that day. It was his rigid allowance. He saw dimly the figures come out from the Wright cottage and his first impulse was to stroll across and join them; but pride forbade. Supposing he were to get there just in time to see Violet walk off with Philip.