Hamil halted in the doorway to protest, but the elder man waved him away; and he went to his room to change riding-clothes for flannels and sponge the reek of horse and leather from his person.

* * * * *

The beach was all ablaze with the brilliant colours of sunshades, hats, and bathing-skirts.  Hamil lost no time in getting into his swimming-suit; and, as he emerged, tall, cleanly built, his compact figure deeply tanned where exposed, Portlaw, waddling briskly toward the ocean, greeted him with the traditional:  “Come on! it’s fine!” and informed him furthermore that “everybody” was there.

CHAPTER VIII

MANOEUVERING

Everybody seemed to be there, either splashing about in the Atlantic or playing ball on the beach or congregated along the sands observant of the jolly, riotous scene sparkling under the magnificence of a cloudless sky.

Hamil nodded to a few people as he sauntered toward the surf; he stopped and spoke to his aunt and Colonel Vetchen, who informed him that Virginia and Cuyp were somewhere together chastely embracing the ocean; he nodded to old Classon who was toddling along the wet sands in a costume which revealed considerable stomach; he saw Malcourt, knee-deep, hovering around Shiela, yet missing nothing of what went on around him, particularly wherever the swing of a bathing-skirt caught his quick, handsome eyes.

Then Cecile stretched out an inviting hand to him from the water and he caught it, and together they hurled themselves head first into the surf, swimming side by side out to the raft.

“It’s nice to see you again,” said the girl.  “Are you going to be agreeable now and go about with us?  There’s a luncheon at two—­your fair friend Virginia Suydam has asked us, much to our surprise—­but after that I’m quite free if you’ve anything to propose.”

She looked up at him, pink and fresh as a wet rose, balanced there on the edge of the rocking raft.

“Anything to propose?” he repeated; “I don’t know; there’s scarcely anything I wouldn’t propose to you.  So you’re going to Virginia’s luncheon?”

“I am; Shiela won’t.”  She frowned.  “It’s just as it was two years ago when Louis Malcourt tagged after her every second.  It’s stupid, but we can’t count on them any more.”

“Does—­does Malcourt—­”

“Tag after Shiela?  Haven’t you seen it?  You’ve been too busy to notice.  I wish you wouldn’t work every minute.  There was the jolliest sort of a dance at the O’Haras’ last night—­while you were fast asleep.  I know you were because old Jonas told mother you had fallen asleep in your chair with your head among a pile of blue-prints.  On my way to the dance I wanted to go in and tie one of Shiela’s cunning little lace morning caps under your chin, but Jessie wouldn’t go with me.  They’re perfectly sweet and madly fashionable—­these little Louis XVI caps.  I’ll show you one some day.”