“What an angel of a baby!” cried Mona, taking the smiling infant in her arms.  “And a solid angel too,” she added, as the child proved more substantial than she had appeared.

“Yes; she’s nearly two years old, and she weighs exactly right, according to the best schedules.  She’s a perfect schedule baby in every way.”

Then the small piece of perfection was handed over to what was probably a schedule nurse, and general introductions followed.

Patty liked the Kenerleys at once.  They were breezy and pleasant mannered, and had an affable way of making themselves at home.

“Mona,” said Mr. Kenerley,—­“I shall have to call you that, for I doubt if my wife has ever even mentioned your last name to me, and if she has, I have forgotten it,—­Mona, how long does one have to be a guest at ‘Red Chimneys’ before he is allowed to go for a dip in that tempting looking ocean I perceive hard by?”

“Oh, only about ten minutes,” said Mona, laughing at his impatience.  “Do you want to go now, alone, or will you wait until later?  Some men are coming soon who would probably join you for a swim.  I expect Bill Farnsworth.”

“Do you!  Dear old Bill!  I haven’t seen him for years.  But he’s so big, he’d take up all the surf,—­I think I’ll go on by myself.  And I know you girls have lots of gossip to talk over—­so, I’ll see you later.”

Jim Kenerley set off for the Galbraith bathing pavilion, easily discernible by its ornate red chimneys, and Mona turned to have a good old-fashioned chat with Adele.

“Why, where is she?” she exclaimed, and Aunt Adelaide petulantly explained that Patty and Adele had gone to look after the baby.  “Pretty poor manners, I call it, to leave me here all alone.  It never occurred to them that I’d like to see the baby, too!”

“Never mind, Aunt Adelaide, you’ll have lots of time to see that baby.  And, of course, Adele wants to go to her rooms and get things arranged.  You and I will wait here for the next arrivals.  Laurence Cromer is due about now.  He’s an artist, you know, and he’ll think you’re a picture in that exquisite gown.”  Much mollified at these remarks, Aunt Adelaide rearranged her draperies, called for another cushion, had a screen lowered, and sat slowly waving a small fan, in expectance of the artist’s admiration.  And perhaps the artist might have given an admiring glance to the picturesque lady in lavender had it not happened that just as he came up the veranda steps Patty appeared in the doorway.  Her pink cheeks were a little flushed from a romp with the baby, a few stray curls had been pulled from their ribbon by baby’s chubby hands, and the laughing face was so fair and winsome that Laurence Cromer stood stock-still and gazed at her.  Then Mona intercepted his vision, but after the necessary introductions and greetings, the young artist’s eyes kept wandering toward Patty, as if drawn by a magnet.

Young Cromer was a clever artist, though not, as yet, exceedingly renowned.  He advertised his calling, however, in his costume and appearance.  He wore white flannels, but he affected a low rolling collar and a soft silk tie.  His hair was just a trifle longer than convention called for, and his well-cut features were marred by a drooping, faraway expression which, he fondly hoped, denoted soulfulness.