It had been agreed upon that O'Donnell should be led directly to the scene of the Assembly Roast instead of being brought all the way round to Beachcrest first. The Needhams, Miss Whitcom, and Barry were to walk up the beach, when it was time.
It was at length about as dark as it ever gets in moonlight season. The moon had not yet risen, but would be coming up soon. The Rev. Needham suggested that it was time to start.
Miss Whitcom was on her feet at once. There followed quite a little flurry about wraps. The Rev. Needham and Barry strolled on ahead down to the beach. They walked slowly, and the ladies were to overtake them. Both men were smoking cigars, the ministerial supply seeming happily inexhaustible. If one's faith might be as inexhaustible!
Being a little ill at ease, they talked of obvious things: the broadness of the beach just here, the firmness of the sand, its pleasant crunch under the feet.
"We tried to have a board walk down from the cottage," observed the Rev. Needham, "but every winter the sand drifted all over it and buried it, so we had to give up the idea." He was wondering nervously whether Barry would seize this occasion to ask for his daughter's hand.
"You really don't need a walk," replied his guest. "It's an agreeable change from the city this way."
"Yes—yes, it's a change."
There was a short, awkward pause. Then Barry remarked. "You've got an ideal location here."
And the minister answered: "Yes, we like it."
They trudged on a little way in silence.