The children laughed, all but Polly. She said, with a little pucker of the brows:—
“What a boy!”
Later, as they went up to the hotel, she glanced towards the broad piazza, now dotted with men and women, and her eyes widened in amazement.
“Why, there’s Mr. Morrow!”
“Who’s he?” queried Harold indifferently.
“Chris Morrow’s father—don’t you know? The one that gave me the pansy pin.”
“Oh! Where is he?”
“Over there by the post, right next to the girl in light pink.”
“That’s the man I came up with! But his name isn’t Morrow—it’s Winship. He said so.”