Rosalind sighed. By all odds, this was the most difficult young man of her experience. She was glad that the voyage would terminate speedily.
A knot of persons was standing on the Witherbee wharf, awaiting the arrival of the big power-launch.
"There are Mrs. Witherbee and Gertrude and some of the others," said Rosalind, her eyes busy. "I don't see Mr. Morton; I imagine you won't mind that, however. But—yes, Polly's there."
"I—I don't see her," declared Kellogg. "Where?"
"In blue, the third from the left."
"Oh, yes; now I see."
He studied the short, plump figure of Polly Dawson with absorbed interest as the boat neared the wharf. There was a hunted expression in his eyes; his fingers twitched.
Mrs. Witherbee welcomed the new guest effusively.
"We've heard so much about you, Mr. Kellogg, that it really seems as if we knew you. But you left before we came up for the season. We're going to try to make up for it."
"That's awfully good of you," stammered the prodigal.