“Nasty little thing!” grumbled Cecile.

“And the apple of Sue Perriton’s eye,” drawled Marian.  “Be careful what you are about, Cecile.  It all lies with the Perritons whether we get into society this season or not.”

“And that Mrs. Conroth who is with them,” put in Prue. “She is the real thing—­the link between the best of New York and Albany society.  Old family—­away back to the patroons—­so old she has to keep moth balls hung in her family tree.  My! if mother could once become the familiar friend of miladi Conroth——­”

“No such luck,” groaned Marian.  “After all’s said and done, mother can’t forget the candy kitchen.  She always looks to me, poor dear, as though she had just been surreptitiously licking her fingers.”

“We do have the worst luck!” groaned the second sister.  “There’s that Dot Johnson coming.  Mother says daddy insists, and when I. Tapp does put down his foot——­Well!”

“We’ll put her off on Fordy,” suggested, the brighter-witted Cecile.  “She rather fancies Ford, I think.”

“Dot Johnson!” chorused the older girls, in horror.  “Not really?” Marian continued.  “The Johnsons are impossible.”

“They’ve got more money than daddy has,” said Prue.

“But they have no aspirations—­none at all,” murmured Marian, in horror.  “If Lawford married Dot Johnson it would be almost as bad as his being mixed up with that picture actress.”

“For him; not for us,” said Prue promptly.  “Of course, as far as the Johnsons go, they are too respectable for anything.  Poor Fordy!”

“Goodness!” snapped Cecile.  “It’s not all settled.  The banns aren’t up.”

The girls wheeled into the grounds surrounding the Tapp villa just as Betty Gallup guided the Merry Andrew to the dock and leaped ashore with the mooring rope.

Tapp Point consisted of about five acres of bluff and sand.  At great expense the Taffy King had terraced the bluff and had made to grow several blades of grass where none at all had been able to gain root before.

The girls saw the queer-looking Betty Gallup helping their brother out of the sloop.

“Say! something’s happened to Ford, I guess,” Cecile cried, stopping the car short of the porte-cochere.

“Run down and see,” commanded Marian languidly.

But Prue hopped out of the roadster and started down the path immediately.  She and Lawford still had a few things in common.  Mutual affection was one of them.

“What’s happened to him?” she cried.  “You’re Mrs. Gallup, aren’t you?”

“I’m Bet Gallup—­yes.  You run call up Doc Ambrose from over to Paulmouth.  Your brother’s got a bad knock on the head.”

“And he’s been overboard!” gasped Prue.

“I—­I’m all right,” stammered Lawford.  “Let me lie down for a little while.  Don’t need a doctor.”

“You’re as wet as a drowned rat,” his sister said.  “Come on up and get some dry clothes, Ford.  I’m sure you’re awful kind, Mrs. Gallup.  I will telephone for the doctor at once.”