mattered of it, the soul and genius of the House, having flitted off
seventy miles to the Beach for an over-Sunday rest.
It was the 29th of October, which should have meant grate-fires. On the
contrary, two windows in the rented sitting-room were open, and Miss
Carlisle Heth, laying down "Pickwick Papers," by Dickens, the
well-known writer, now rose and flung wide the third.
"Whew!" said she, just as an ordinary person might have done. "It's
stifling!"
Her mother, a lifelong conservative, presently replied:
"It isn't the heat, it's the humidity."
Carlisle looked out over the sunny sea, and wondered if her mother were
never going to take her nap. She was twenty-three years old, and, Hun or
no Hun, was certainly not displeasing to the fleshly eye. Also, she much
desired to pass the time with a little sail, having already privately
engaged a catboat for that express purpose. There was no reason whatever
why she shouldn't have the sail, except that her mother was opposed on
principle to anything that looked the least bit adventurous.
"There are cinders on me yet, in spite of my bath," added Mrs. Heth,
whisking through the less interesting pieces in the "Post."... "Willie's
train arrives at four-thirty, I believe?"
Miss Heth confirmed the belief.
"I wonder, really," mused the dowager, not for the first time, "what
attraction the place can offer Mr. Canning. Men are strange in their
choice of amusement, to say the least."
"He's tired of the hermit life, and wants to let down his bars and have
a little fun."
"He could have all the fun he wants in town, Cally. He has only to make
a sign--"
"Of course!--and be snowed under with invitations which would be odious
to him, and probably roped in for something by Helen and Sue Louise
Cheriton, say. He can have fun here, without its leading to anything."
She added, with perverse merriment: "At least he thinks he can, not
knowing that two enterprising strangers are camping right across his
little trail."
Mrs. Heth frowned slightly. She was a slim, rather small lady, and her
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