There was a moment's silence; a sort of shiver ran through the young people. It was a sensation they quickly recognized, but to which they could give no name; the voice and presence of spiritual poise, the calm, inexorable deliberation of assured authority.
"How do you do, everybody?" said Watts quietly, as quietly as he stood there waiting.
That "everybody," grave as it was, contained an informal welcome that Minga was quick to recognize. She, who took hurdles as soon as they were presented, now tried to jump the barrier of this stranger's powerful personality. She stepped forward, a funny little figure in scarlet, opposite to the tall khaki-clad repose of the man.
"How do you do, Mr. Shipman?" came the little voice in the moonlight.
Minga was glib at these numbers. "I've—we've heard so much about you, awfully glad to meet you; you know my cousin, Mrs. Ledyard, she's told me just lots about you."
Watts swept a swift glance at the girl.... "Yes," he took Minga in and smiled, not unsympathetically, "I know Mrs. Ledyard well; I am glad to meet a cousin of hers. It's Miss Gerould, isn't it? I am so glad to see you."
"Well," Minga, even before his indulgence, felt an unaccountable awkwardness; the erstwhile Pocahontas shifted from one foot to another while she dug both hands in the patch pockets of her tennis skirt. "I—we—er—just came up," she began; "we all sort of—thought we'd like to know you."
Now the owl-eyed youth stepped forward with the grand manner of the college debater.
"We come on behalf of Terence O'Brien," he began. At the superior manner and the name, the great lawyer stiffened ever so imperceptibly, but suddenly the owl-eyed also lost courage, so that it was Sard who was forced to lucidify things.
"We hope we aren't intruding." The girl's voice was even and poised. Watts looked at her with interest.