“Miss Remi?” she wondered, sweetly.
“Why, yes. Didn’t you see us?” He was just a little conscious. “There she is at the raft,” he added. “You must meet her, Lil; mustn’t she, Mrs. Crosby? There’s no one in Santa Barbara like her.”
“Really?” Mrs. Gueste looked through her lorgnon at the glinting speck traveling out on the water.
Wallie frowned. He hated his sister’s lorgnon, and her lorgnon manner was his bête noir.
“I am afraid we shan’t be able to wait until Miss—er”—she searched for the name—“comes out. We must be at the house by three.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll signal her to come back. Where’s something?” His hand fell on his sister’s parasol, and before she could protest he had it at the edge of the beach, waving over his head. It was probably the first conspicuous performance of that very discreet parasol; and as for the punctilious Wallie——!
“Do you suppose he gets that sort of thing from her?” Lillian articulated.
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Crosby agreed, faintly. She felt a wish to escape being present at the approaching introduction. “If you don’t mind, Lily,” she excused herself, “I really ought to run uptown and see Mrs. Herrick for a few moments. You remember I promised her.”
“Why, of course. Wallie will see me home.” Lillian smiled, remembering how in their school days Julia’s conscience had always precipitated the crisis, and dodged the consequences.
She sat composedly alone in the sand, watching the glinting speck drawing landward. Wallie stood awaiting it, his toes in the water, his sister’s pink parasol held like a saber in his hand.