That same afternoon Gifford Barrett strolled down to the beach.  The wind had been on shore for the past two days, and the breakers, too heavy now to allow any bathing, crashed on the sand with a dull booming that sounded far inland, while close at the water-side was heard the crash of the grinding pebbles.  Under the McAlister awning, Mrs. McAlister, Hope and the Farringtons sat in a cozy group, and Mac, close by, was devoting his small energies to burying his grandfather.  The young man stopped to speak to them for a minute; then he moved away towards the spot where Phebe sat alone under her umbrella.

“Isn’t the surf superb, Miss McAlister?”

She looked up from her book rather ungraciously.

“Yes, it’s very fine.”

“How does it happen you are not at the golf links?”

“There’s a tournament, to-day.”

“And you didn’t enter?”

“No; they didn’t play well enough to make it worth my while.”

Deliberately he settled himself at her side.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.  “That book looked rather indigestible for an August day.”

“I prefer it.  I can’t spend my time over novels,” Phebe said.

The strong wind had ruffled her bright hair and deepened the pink in her cheeks.  The young man looked at her admiringly.  Up to this time, he had only seen her in her short blue suit, and he told himself that this fluffy pink muslin gown was vastly more becoming to her.

“Don’t you ever do frivolous things?” he asked in some amusement.

“No.  What’s the use?”

“There’s going to be a dance, next week.”

“Is there?” Phebe’s tone betrayed no interest in the tidings.

“Yes.  I came down to see if I could induce you to go with me.”

“I hate dancing in August,” she said flatly.

“I’m sorry.  Besides, one must do something down here.”

“One can, if one wants to.  I don’t.  There’s no sense in coming to this kind of a place, just to put on one’s best clothes and dance all night in a stuffy room.”

“You might take Lear’s method,” he suggested;

“’And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.’”

For one instant, Phebe relaxed her severity.

“Do you like Lear, too?” she asked.

“Of course.  What sensible person doesn’t?” He stretched himself out at full length, resting his head on his hand, and, for the moment, Phebe, as she looked at him, felt that he was almost handsome enough to atone for his lack of energy.  “But you haven’t accepted my invitation,” he added persuasively.

“I know it.”

“Please do.”

“What for?  I told you I don’t like hops in August.”

“But I can’t hop alone.”

“Ask somebody else, then.”

“Don’t want to.  Well, I’ll consider it an engagement.”

“Why don’t you play golf?” Phebe demanded.