Strictly, Mrs. Stott did not belong in the group in which she was
seated. She had been coming to The Colonial only eleven years, so
really, she should have been on the other side of the veranda, but Mrs.
Stott had such an insidious way of getting where and what she wanted
that she was "one of them" almost before they knew it.

Mr. Stott was a rising young attorney of forty-eight, and it was
anticipated that he would one day be a leading trial lawyer because of
his aggressiveness.

Wallie's voice took on a sympathetic tone. He stopped in front of a
chair where a very thin young lady was reclining languidly.

"How's the bad heart to-day, Miss Eyester?"

"About as usual, Wallie, thank you," she replied, gratefully.

"Your lips have more colour."

Miss Eyester opened a handbag and, taking out a small, round mirror
which she carried for the purpose, inspected her lips critically.

"It does seem so," she admitted. "If I can just keep from getting
excited."

"I can't imagine a better place than The Colonial." The reply contained
a grain of irony.

"That's why I come here," Miss Eyester sighed, "though I'm _pining_ to
go somewhere livelier."

Wallie wagged his head playfully.

"Treason! Treason! Why, you've been coming here for--" Miss Eyester's
alarmed expression caused him to finish lamely--"for ever so long."

"Wallie!" It was his aunt's voice calling and he went instantly to a
tall, austere lady in a linen collar who was knitting wash-rags with the
feverish haste of a piece-worker in a factory.

He stood before her obediently.

"Don't go in to-day."

"_Why_, Auntie?" In his voice there was a world of disappointment.

"It's too rough--there must have been a storm at sea."

"But, Auntie," he protested, "I missed yesterday, taking Mrs. Appel to
the auction. It isn't very rough----"

"Look at the white-caps," she interrupted, curtly, "I don't want you to
go, Wallie."

"Oh, very well." He turned away abruptly, wondering if she realized how
keenly he was disappointed--a disappointment that was not made less by
the fact that her fears were groundless, since not only was it not
"rough" but he was an excellent swimmer.

"The girl from Wyoming," as he called Miss Spenceley to himself, had
overheard and was looking at him with an expression in her eyes which
made him redden. It was mocking; she was laughing at him for being told
not to go in bathing, as if he were a child of seven.

He sauntered past her,