But the number grew larger.  As people had talked about Hamilton and Company’s assortment of Christmas goods, so now they began to talk about the “quaintness and delightful originality” of the For’ard Lookout.  The tea was good; the cakes and ices were good; on pleasant days the view was remarkably fine, and the pretty things in the gift shop were temptingly displayed.  So, as May passed and June came, and the cottages and hotels began to open, the business of the new tea-room and gift shop grew from fair to good and from that to very good indeed.

Mary divided her time between the store and the tearoom, doing her best to keep a supervising eye on each.  She was in no mood to meet people and kept out of the way of strangers as much as possible; even of her former acquaintances who came to the For’ard Lookout she saw but few.  If she had not been too busy she might have found it amusing, the contrasting studies in human nature afforded by these former acquaintances in their attitude toward her.

For instance, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Mullet and daughter, Irene, the latter now through school and “finished” until her veneering actually glittered, sat drinking tea at a table on the lawn.  Said Mrs. Mullet: 

“And this is what it’s come to; after all the airs and frills and the goin’ to Europe and I don’t know what all.  Here she is keepin’ an eatin’ house.  An eatin’ house—­just think of it!  If that ain’t a comedown!  Wouldn’t you think she’d be ashamed, ’Rena?”

Miss Mullet drooped a weary eyelid and sighed a hopeless sigh.

“Oh, Mother,” she drawled, in deep disgust, “Can’t you stop calling me by that outlandish name?  I was christened Irene, I believe.  Please remember it.”

“All right, ’Re—­all right, Irene; I won’t forget again.  Oh, there’s Mary-’Gusta, now!  Showin’ herself out here with all these city folks, when she’s nothin’ but a hired help—­a table girl, as you might say!  I shan’t notice her, anyway.  I may buy her tea and stuff, but I—­Who’s that runnin’ up to her and—­and kissin’ her—­and—­mercy on us!  You’d think they was sisters, if you didn’t know.  Who is it?  Looks kind of common, she does to me.  Don’t you think so, ’Rena—­Irene, I mean?”

Irene sniffed.

“That,” she said with cutting emphasis, “is Barbara Howe.  Her people are building that big summer house at Osterville and her father is a millionaire, so they say.  And her people wouldn’t let her come to the school you sent me to because they thought it wasn’t good enough for her.  That’s how common she is.  I met her once, but she doesn’t know me now, although she is perfectly crazy over that Mary Lathrop.  I—­Oh, there’s Father drinking out of his saucer again!  For heaven’s sake, let’s go home!”

And just then Barbara was enthusiastically hugging her former schoolmate and exclaiming: