Philip went out on the porch. The tide was receding and dragging in and out the stones of the beach. He frowned thoughtfully at the rolling expanse. "This is disturbing," he reflected. His blood was pumping and dragging mightily at locked doors of his own which he knew must be locked for years to come.
"And even then it cannot be Kathleen who opens them," he reminded himself. While she was flashing about to fashionable functions in her limousine the coming season, he would still be planning which meal to make the substantial one of the day.
"The cushions!" he thought suddenly, and, finding relief in action, he began running back with long, even strides, through the silent, silvered fields.
Before ten o'clock the next morning Edgar presented himself at the farmhouse to make inquiries for the invalid. He was eager to begin treating Violet right; and as a commencement he brought a box of bonbons which he had ordered from the city before that resolution was made. However, flowers and candy were conventional attentions. So were books. He reflected that no one could criticize his giving Violet a marked copy of Tennyson.
"She isn't here," Mrs. Wright told him when he reached the house. "She has gone somewhere to get an extra coat of tan and see the tide come in."
"Why didn't I come sooner!" exclaimed Edgar, vexed. "I thought her headache—I thought she wouldn't be up early."
"Oh, I think you must have exorcised that last night," said Mrs. Wright. "How we all enjoyed the medicine! Will you promise to sing every night if one of us will fall ill?"
Edgar smiled and twisted his mustache. "We have a lame duck over at our house," he said. "Kathleen managed to slip on the rocks last night. She's as plucky as they make 'em, though. She's limping around. Phil was with her—not very bright of him, I must say."
"Oh, I'm sorry he has that cloud over his first morning at the studio," returned Mrs. Wright. "I saw him go in there an hour ago."