Mr. Libby looked at Grace, who haughtily rejected a part in the conspiracy.  “I wish you to go, Louise,” she declared indignantly.  “I will take the risk of all the harm that comes to you from the bad weather.”  She picked up the shawls, and handed them to Mr. Libby, on whom her eyes blazed their contempt and wonder.  It cost a great deal of persuasion and insistence now to make Mrs. Maynard go, and he left all this to Grace, not uttering a word till he gave Mrs. Maynard his hand to help her down the steps.  Then he said, “Well, I wonder what Miss Breen does want.”

“I ’m sure I don’t know,” said the other.  “At first she did n’t want me to go, this morning, and now she makes me.  I do hope it is n’t going to be a storm.”

“I don’t believe it is.  A little fresh, perhaps.  I thought you might be seasick.”

“Don’t you remember?  I’m never seasick!  That’s one of the worst signs.”

“Oh, yes.”

“If I could be thoroughly seasick once, it would be the best thing I could do.”

“Is she capricious?” asked Mr. Libby.

“Grace?” cried Mrs. Maynard, releasing her hand half-way down the steps, in order to enjoy her astonishment without limitation of any sort.  “Grace capricious!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Libby, “that’s what I thought.  Better take my hand again,” and he secured that of Mrs. Maynard, who continued her descent.  “I suppose I don’t understand her exactly.  Perhaps she did n’t like my not calling her Doctor.  I did n’t call her anything.  I suppose she thought I was dodging it.  I was.  I should have had to call her Miss Breen, if I called her anything.”

“She wouldn’t have cared.  She is n’t a doctor for the name of it.”

“I suppose you think it’s a pity?” he asked.

“What?”

“Her being a doctor.”

“I’ll tell her you say so.”

“No, don’t.  But don’t you?”

“Well, I would n’t want to be one,” said Mrs. Mayward candidly.

“I suppose it’s all right, if she does it from a sense of duty, as you say,” he suggested.

“Oh, yes, she’s all right.  And she’s just as much of a girl as anybody; though she don’t know it,” Mrs. Maynard added astutely.  “Why would n’t she come with us?  Were you afraid to ask her?”

“She said she was n’t a good sailor.  Perhaps she thought we were too young.  She must be older than you.”

“Yes, and you, too!” cried Mrs. Maynard, with good-natured derision.

“She doesn’t look old,” returned Mr. Libby.

“She’s twenty-eight.  How old are you?”

“I promised the census-taker not to tell till his report came out.”

“What is the color of her hair?”

“Brown.”

“And her eyes?”

“I don’t know!”

“You had better look out, Mr. Libby!” said Mrs. Maynard, putting her foot on the ground at last.

They walked across the beach to where his dory lay, and Grace saw him pulling out to the sail boat before she went in from the piazza.  Then she went to her mother’s room.  The elderly lady was keeping indoors, upon a theory that the dew was on, and that it was not wholesome to go out till it was off.  She asked, according to her habit when she met her daughter alone, “Where is Mrs. Maynard?”