"I don't know any Daltons. Do you, Becky?"
Becky stood by the table with her back to them. She did not turn. "Yes," she said in a steady voice. "There was a George Dalton whom I met this summer—in Virginia."
II
There was little sleep for Becky that night. The storm tore around the tiny house, but its foundations were firm, and it did not shake. The wind whistled as if the wooden figure in the front yard had suddenly come to life and was madly making up for the silence of a half-century.
So George had followed her. He had found her out, and there was no way of escape. She would
have to see him, hear him. She would have to set herself against the charm of that quick voice, those sparkling eyes. There would be no one to save her now. Randy was far away. She must make her fight alone.
She turned restlessly. Why should she fight? What, after all, did George mean to her? A chain of broken dreams? A husk of golden armor? _Georgie-Porgie_—who had kissed and run away.
She was listless at breakfast. The storm was over, and the Admiral was making plans for a picnic the next day to Altar Rock. "Hot coffee and lobster sandwiches, and a view of the sea on a day like this."
Becky smiled. "Grandfather," she said, "I believe you are happy because you keep your head in the stars and your feet on the ground."
"What's the connection, my dear?"