“No; I thought I wouldn’t go in to-day,” she said.  “I don’t care very much about it, when the surf is running so high.”

“Your sister doesn’t seem to mind any amount of surf,” Mr. Barrett said, glancing at Phebe.

Coming nearer him, one saw that his brown eyes were frank and kindly, that his face was attractive when he smiled.  Theodora liked him unreservedly; she even began to remember him a little, in a vague sort of way, and she hoped that Phebe would be in one of her more lenient moods.  In vain.

“Yes, I like to swim,” Phebe said briefly.

“Evidently, for no one could swim as you do, without enjoying it,” Mr. Barrett observed, with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish.

“Mr. Drayton swims magnificently, and he hates it.”

“Is this your first season here at Quantuck?”

“Yes.”

Under cover of her gown Theodora gave Phebe a furtive poke.  Phebe turned abruptly and stared at her.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well what?” Theodora said, with a smile.

“What did you want?  You poked me; didn’t you?”

“I beg your pardon.  Did I hit you?  I get stiff with so long sitting still.  Is Quantuck an old ground of yours, Mr. Barrett?”

“No; I am a stranger here.  Your little nephew is the first friendly face I have seen.”

“I hope you will be neighborly at the Lodge, then.  It is just on the edge of the bluff, and the latch-string is always out.  So are we, for that matter.  We spend most of our time down here, all of us but Phebe.  She infests the golf links.”

“You are a golf enthusiast, then Miss McAlister?”

“Yes.  Aren’t you?”

“No; not just now, at least.  Have they good links here?”

“Very.”  Phebe rose as she spoke.

“Where are you going, Babe?” Hope asked.

“Down to take one more plunge, then back to the house.  I’m going out early this afternoon, and I must be ready.”

Theodora’s next remark fell upon empty ears.  Gifford Barrett was watching Phebe as she went away, admiring her tall, lithe figure, her well-set head, and wondering why in the name of all that was musical this girl should snub him so roundly.  He searched his mind in vain for some just cause of personal offence; he could not realize that, in Phebe’s present state of mind, there was no interest at all for her in a man who could neither swim nor play golf, and that it was characteristic of Phebe McAlister never to hide her feelings.  Meanwhile, it was the first time in his life that he had been snubbed by any girl, and he found the experience novel, interesting and by no means satisfactory.  As he left the awning and strolled away up the beach, he was resolving that incense and solitude should give way to snubbing.  He would see more, much more of this taciturn young woman, force her to talk and, if possible, undermine her antipathy to himself.

Unhappily for Gifford Barrett, however, his conceit was playing him false.  Phebe felt no antipathy to him, none whatever; she was only completely indifferent to the very fact of his existence, and she went round the links, that afternoon with a healthy forgetfulness of the fact that she had ever set eyes upon the tall person of the greatest American composer.