"He didn't hear the remark," Jack put in hastily. "Uncle Randolph wouldn't have approved of that sort of work, I rather fancy."
Jerry made a grimace, and echoed the sentiment, but he added that Dave was really an excellent sailor, and that personally he'd trust the fellow's sense of smell sooner than he would the skill of most pilots. The dangerous moment passed without further allusion to the President, and the talk turned to other matters.
"Is there any one here we know?" inquired Mrs. Fairhew. "I suppose it is hardly possible at this time of year."
"I don't believe there is," answered Tab, "unless," he added, a sudden thought striking him, "you know where Pæstum is?"
"Certainly. I've been looking forward with dread to dragging Katrine down there to see the temples, though really the time of year ought to excuse us."
"Well, there's a sort of Anglo-American lunatic archæologist down there, named Wrenmarsh. Have you ever heard of him? He has relatives in Boston, I understood him."
Mrs. Fairhew set down the coffee-cup she was just raising to her lips, and looked at Jerry with a keen glance in which amusement and surprise seemed to be mingled.
"What is his Christian name?" she asked.
"Gordon."
"Gordon Wrenmarsh at Pæstum! Well, the world is small, and he might be anywhere,—at least anywhere where he was not expected to be. Did you never hear of him? But no, you wouldn't; you're too young. He is one of my contemporaries, and he has been on this side of the water for ever so long."