Phebe, meanwhile, had been swimming with the tide and was now far up the shore.  There she landed herself through the breakers as craftily as a fisherman lands his dory, and came tramping back toward the awning onto more.  Not even the deep sand could hamper her light step, as she came striding along with a perfect disregard of the buzz which passed along the line of awnings parallel with her coming.

“Miss Phebe McAlister, Dr. McAlister’s daughter, splendid looking girl, but rather eccentric, they say.”  “A perfect snob; but I don’t know as I blame her.  Sister to Mrs. Farrington, that tall woman with the handsome husband.”  “Sister to Mrs. Theodora McAlister Farrington, the novelist.  Isn’t she superb?  But I hear she doesn’t care a fig for society.”

So the buzz ran on, and Phebe passed by, heedless of it, heedless, too, of the gaze of a young man who stood alone, a little back of the line of awnings.  It was evident that he was a stranger, for he spoke to no one, although it is not easy to be unsocial at Quantuck.  For the rest, he was tall, strongly built, with a fresh, boyish face; he wore a little pointed beard, and he carried himself with an indescribable air of being somebody at whom it was worth while to look twice.

“Did you see the new man on the beach, this morning?” Allyn asked, at dinner, that noon.

“The new man, when there are new men here, every day in the week!” Theodora’s tone was one of amusement.

“Evidently you didn’t see him, or you’d speak with more respect.  He was a duke in disguise, at the very least.”

“Do you mean the man with the Frenchy beard, and his nose in the air?” Cicely asked, with scant respect for the stranger’s ducal appearance.

“Yes.  Who was he?”

“I don’t know.  He acted as if he did the beach a favor in even looking at it.”

“He didn’t look that way at Babe,” Allyn remarked, with a chuckle.  “I thought sure he was going to applaud her, when she came stalking down the beach.”

“Babe does take the beach a good deal after the manner of Lady Macbeth,” Lilly observed.  “Where was your man, Allyn?  I didn’t see any titled strangers of my acquaintance.”

“He was just back of the Whitmans’ awning for a long time.  After that, he came down to Mr. Drayton and talked to him.  I didn’t see him speak to anybody else, though.”

“Oh,” Hubert said suddenly; “I know the man you mean, Allyn.  There is a good deal of him, too.  Sam Asquith told me he had just come to the hotel.  He is a composer and hails from New York.”

“What is his name?” Theodora asked rather indifferently.

“Gifford Barrett.”

“Oh!” There was a clatter, as Cicely dropped her knife and fork and clasped her hands in ecstasy.  “Really?”

“Is it so painful as all that, Cis?” Allyn inquired.

“Pain!  It’s utter rapture.  I’ve always felt that, if I could just once look at Gifford Barrett, I could die happy.  Do you know who he is, you ignorant ones?”