“Sorry to be late, Daddy,” she apologized, slipping into her chair. “Good evening, Mr. Holloway.”
“Good evening, Miss Dorothy,” returned the gentleman with a smile. “You seem a bit blown.”
“Some rush!” she sighed, “but I made it!”
“Youth,” remarked her father, “is nothing if not inconsistent. We dine early, so that Dorothy can get to the Sillies at some unearthly hour, and—”
His daughter interrupted.
“Please, Daddy. I had an awfully exciting experience this afternoon. I’d have been home in plenty of time, otherwise.”
“At the Beach Club?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Well, suppose you tell us the story, as penance.” He turned to his guest. “How about it, Holloway? This should interest you, one of the club’s most prominent swimming fans!”
Mr. Holloway nodded genially. He was older than Mr. Dixon, between fifty and sixty, tall and rather thin. He had the brow and jaw of a fighter, and his iron-grey side-whiskers gave him a rather formidable appearance. But Dorothy liked him, for his eyes, behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, beamed with friendliness.