“I met your grandfather, the Rear-Admiral, Miss Polly, a few years ago, at a Naval banquet,” he said one day, “and do you know, the President paid us each a compliment. He said the Rear-Admiral was the handsomest man present, and that I was the most necessary to the nation. And the Admiral and I confided to each other later that we would willingly exchange places.”
“Now, Polly, did you hear what he said to-day?” Ruth asked in a puzzled tone, after he had gone. “Who can he be? The most necessary to the nation.”
Polly shook her head.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I like him just as he is. If he should turn out to be somebody very, very famous, he wouldn’t seem to belong to us at all.”
The Orienta Club opened its season with a “hop” for the Juniors, and a reception for the older members, and an invitation found its way to Lost Island.
“Miss Calvert would say we should not go unless we were chaperoned, Polly,” Kate said, doubtfully.
“You are our chaperon. You are nearly nineteen, dignified and responsible. We don’t need any other.” And Polly went serenely along with her preparations.
“This is partly a business affair,” she explained. “In outdoor sports strict rules all tumble down, I mean social rules. We’re just the members of one yacht club accepting the hospitality of another club. Ruth, don’t pull your hair back so tight. It makes your eyebrows look like a Japanese girl’s on a fan. Fluff it all out at the sides. Here, I will.”
And Ruth obediently sat down, while Polly’s deft fingers took all the primness and straight lines out of her hair.
Tom had promised to drive them over to the club house in the Captain’s old-fashioned carry-all. He came along the shore road about seven, and sent up a long “Ahoy!” across the sand.