He was a bachelor, just entering his thirties, a fastidious, critical, exacting man by reputation, but showing his best side to the Stricklands.  They had a vague idea that he was rich, according to their modest standard, but he apparently had no extravagant tastes, and lived as quietly, or more quietly, than they did.  He had a brown cabin, up on the mountain, where two or three Portuguese boys and an old, fat Chinese cook managed his affairs, and he sometimes spoke of friends at the club, or brought two or three men home with him for a visit.  But for the most part he liked solitude, books, music, dogs, and his fireside.  The old doctor’s one social enjoyment was in visiting Peter, and the younger man went to no other place so steadily as he came to the old house under the redwoods.

The girls accepted him unquestioningly, sometimes resenting his frank criticism, sometimes grateful for the entertaining he delighted to do for them, but most often ignoring him, as if he had been an uncle whose place and standing in the domestic circle was unquestioned, but who did not really enter into their young plans and lives.  He was whimsically, good-naturedly disapproving of Alexandra, and he frankly did not like Anne, but he had always been especially indulgent to Cherry, and had taken the subject of Cherry’s schooling and development very seriously.  And Cherry treated him, in return, as if she had been his demure and mischievous and affectionate daughter.

“’Morning, Peter!” said Doctor Strickland now, smiling at him.  “Have you had yours?”

“My house,” said Mr. Joyce fastidiously, “is a well-managed place.”

“Of course,” Alix said, panting from her welcome to the dog, and laughing at the newcomer without resentment, “of course it is, for the President Emeritus of the Maiden Ladies’ Guild is running it!”

“Don’t be insulting,” Peter answered, in the same mood.  “Say,” he added, pursing his lips to whistle, as he looked at the rose tree, “did Tuesday’s wind do that?”

“Tuesday’s wind and Dad,” Alix answered.  “Will it go back, Peter?”

“I—­I don’t know!” he mused, walking slowly about the wreck.  “If we had a lever down here, and some fellow on the roof with a rope, maybe.”

“Mr. Lloyd is coming over!” Alix announced.  Peter nodded absently, but the mention of Martin Lloyd reminded him that they had all dined at his house on the very evening when the mysterious gale had commenced, and with interest he asked: 

“Cherry catch cold coming home Tuesday night?”

“No; she squeezed in between Dad and me, and was as warm as toast!” Alix answered casually.  “How’d you like Mr. Lloyd?” she added.

“Nice fellow!” Peter answered.  Alix grinned.  She had before this accused Peter of violent partisanship with his own sex.  He criticized women severely; the Strickland girls had often been angry and resentful at his comments upon the insincerity, extravagance, and ignorance of their own sex, but with Peter, all men were worthy of respect, until otherwise proved.