“Ah! So this is the place in which young genius finds its habitation;” grated out a rather harsh, unpleasant voice.
They all looked up. Perhaps none of them—Jimsy least of all—was pleased at the interruption. The newcomer was a tall, angular man, with a withered, clean-shaven face,—what Peggy called a “money making face”; and surely that described Simon Harding, as he stood there in his black, none-too-new garments, and his square-toed shoes. One could fairly catch the avaricious glint in his eyes as he squinted rapidly over the new aeroplane’s outlines.
By his side stood a youth who was, so far as dress went at any rate, the exact opposite of the elder man. Fanning Harding—or Fan as he was usually called—was dressed in elaborate motoring costume. His goggles, of the latest and most exaggerated design, were shoved up off his countenance now, exposing to view a good-looking browned face. It was marred, however, by the same restless, strained look that could be seen on his father’s visage.
“We’re not intruding, I hope,” he hastened to say, coming forward with a cordiality that seemed somewhat forced.
“Not in the least,” said Peggy, hastily, realizing that none of them had perhaps looked very cordial, “won’t you come in?”
Fan Harding, bestowing an admiring glance on her, seemed to be about to accept. His father, however, struck in:
“I’ll leave you with the young folks, my boy, while I go up to the house. I have some business with Miss Prescott.”
As he shuffled off, Peggy and Roy exchanged somewhat uneasy glances. What business could this old man—in some respects a power financially and otherwise in Sandy Beach—have with their aunt?
“Say Peggy,” spoke up Fan Harding, suddenly, “ain’t you going to introduce me to your friends? And how about inviting us all to have some of those strawberries Pop and I noticed as we came down the path?”
“Well, he isn’t a bit backward about coming forward!” thought Jess as the young people, with due formality, went through the ceremony of introductions.