Miss Lacey made a gesture. "She did it, anyway." She lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. "Haven't things worked around wonderfully, Mr. Dunham?" The speaker drew back, giving him a significant look.
"How do you mean?" asked Dunham cautiously.
"Since that day we were at Hotel Frisbie. I haven't dared look to see how many new gray hairs that week gave me, and here we are, all so calm and happy. Miss Derwent being so kind and hospitable to Sylvia, and none of my doings at all. You see, it would have been such an impossible thing for me to suggest that my niece should visit here, but it came around in the most natural way through Thinkright."
"It is fine," returned Dunham. Sylvia's name still meant for him only the dew-laden eyes that beseeched him as he left her at the Association that day in Boston. He felt some curiosity as to how Miss Lacey had finally made her peace, and he felt sure that she would like to tell him; but the younger Miss Lacey's affairs were none of his.
"I'm sorry not to find Miss Derwent," he said.
"Oh, you'll find her," returned Miss Lacey briskly. "You will stay to dinner with us, of course."
"Certainly not," returned Dunham quickly.
"Why, you will. We have it at noon, you know."
"In these togs?" asked John incredulously—"Miss Derwent?"
"Oh, hers aren't any better," returned Miss Martha. "That's the island fashion."