“She does everything well,” said one of them.
“And your son is—” but what his son was Jane and Mabel could not hear, as the gentleman turned on his heel and walked off up the beach puffing vigorously at a long black cigar that Mabel insisted smelt as though it might have cost a dollar.
“Lorna, darling, I hate for you to get your pretty bathing suit wet,” said one of the girls, whose manner was even more fawning than the rest.
“Oh, Lord!” groaned Mabel. “Just listen!”
“Lorna! Lorna!” Jane said to herself. “Could these be Breck’s people?” Looking after the retreating figure of the impatient old gentleman, she saw unmistakable lines of resemblance. He could be none other than the father of the man she had promised to marry.
“Poor Breck! They are certainly difficult,” she said to herself. “But the father looks sad. I believe he has been suffering, and the girl is sweet looking and mighty pretty. It is just this lot of flatterers and sillies that are ruining her. Look at the men! They haven’t a chin between them and the girls ought to have a good strenuous course in Camp Fire training to knock the foolishness out of them.”
She said nothing to Mabel about the possibility of their being the Breckenridges. Mabel was not a marvel of tact and Jane felt that here was a situation that must be handled delicately. She hoped something would detain Breck and she could warn him that his father and sister were on the beach. It might be hard on him to come upon them unawares. She felt assured, however, that her Breck was equal to any emergency.
“I wish I could get my wind back,” said Mabel. “That ‘boiling’ has done me up for the day. I wanted to go in the water again but I fancy I’d better not.”