“Not a bit of it.  It’s the nicest place in America:  such grass, such horses, such women, and the drive round the island—­there’s nothing like it in the country.  We take it every day.  Yes, it would be a little lonesome but for the ocean.  It’s a good deal like a funeral procession, nobody ever recognizes you, not even the hotel people who are in hired hacks.  If I were to come again, Mr. King, I’d come in a yacht, drive up from it in a box on two wheels, with a man clinging on behind with his back to me, and have a cottage with an English gardener.  That would fetch ’em.  Money won’t do it, not at a hotel.  But I’m not sure but I like this way best.  It’s an occupation for a man to keep up a cottage.”

“And so you do not find it dull?”

“No.  When we aren’t out riding, she and Irene go on to the cliffs, and I sit here and talk real estate.  It’s about all there is to talk of.”

There was an awkward moment or two when the two parties met in the lobby and were introduced before going in to breakfast.  There was a little putting up of guards on the part of the ladies.  Between Irene and Marion passed that rapid glance of inspection, that one glance which includes a study and the passing of judgment upon family, manners, and dress, down to the least detail.  It seemed to be satisfactory, for after a few words of civility the two girls walked in together, Irene a little dignified, to be sure, and Marion with her wistful, half-inquisitive expression.  Mr. King could not be mistaken in thinking Irene’s manner a little constrained and distant to him, and less cordial than it was to Mr. Forbes, but the mother righted the family balance.

“I’m right glad you’ve come, Mr. King.  It’s like seeing somebody from home.  I told Irene that when you came I guess we should know somebody.  It’s an awful fashionable place.”

“And you have no acquaintances here?”

“No, not really.  There’s Mrs. Peabody has a cottage here, what they call a cottage, but there no such house in Cyrusville.  We drove past it.  Her daughter was to school with Irene.  We’ve met ’em out riding several times, and Sally (Miss Peabody) bowed to Irene, and pa and I bowed to everybody, but they haven’t called.  Pa says it’s because we are at a hotel, but I guess it’s been company or something.  They were real good friends at school.”

Mr. King laughed.  “Oh, Mrs. Benson, the Peabodys were nobodys only a few years ago.  I remember when they used to stay at one of the smaller hotels.”

“Well, they seem nice, stylish people, and I’m sorry on Irene’s account.”