"O—h," yawned Daphne.
"Oh—yourself!" yawned her father.
It was Daphne who woke first the next time, and she woke with her fingers clutching hard into her father's startled shoulder.
"Oh, Old-Dad!" she cried. "There's a lady walking on my beach!"
Heavy with sleep, Jaffrey Bretton struggled laboriously upward and shook his white hair from his eyes just in time to face the intruder as she rounded the nearest cactus thicket.
"Why—why—good afternoon, Lady-Walking-on-our-Beach!" he said.
The scream that the lady gave, though distinctly shrill was yet 123 quite unmistakably a khaki scream, the scream, as it were, of a sportswoman, a mere matter of atavism only.
"Oh! How you startled me!" she cried.
It was at least very becoming to the lady to be startled, though all around the edges of the frank confession her lips showed still their stark, atavic pallor, and the clever gray eyes that searched the two blue-jersied figures before her were rather extravagantly dilated.
"Is—is this Martha's Island?" she questioned just a little bit abruptly.