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ou've been long enough getting here," declared she petulantly. "Where on earth have you been? We decided you must have got stalled on the road." "Oh, no," interrupted her father, coming up the steps. "We made the run over and back without a particle of trouble. What delayed us was that we stopped to visit with Bob's aunt and the old gentleman with whom he is staying. Such a quaint character, Maida! You really should see him. I had all I could do to tear myself away from the place." His wife raised her delicately penciled brows. "We do not often see you so enthusiastic, Richard." "They are charming people, I assure you. I don't wonder Bob prefers staying over there to coming here," chuckled the financier. "Oh, I say, Mr. Galbraith--" began Bob; but his host interrupted him. "That is a rather rough accusation, isn't it?" declared he, "and it's not quite fair, either. To tell the truth, Bob's deep in some important work." There was a light, scornful laugh from Cynthia. "He is, my lady. You needn't be so incredulous," her brother put in. "Bob is busy with a boat-building project. Dad's got interested in it, too." Cynthia pursed her lips with a little grimace. "Ask him if you don't believe it," persisted Roger. "Yes," went on Mr. Galbraith, "that old chap over at Wilton has an idea that may make all our fortunes, Bob's included." There was a general laugh. "Well," pouted Cynthia, glancing down at the toe of her immaculate buckskin shoe, "I call it very tiresome for Bob to have to work all his vacation." "I don't have to," Robert Morton objected. "I am simply doing it for fun. Can't you understand the sport of--" "No, she can't," her brother asserted. "Cynthia never sees any fun in working." "Roger!" Mrs. Galbraith drawled gently. "Well, I don't like to work," owned the girl with delicious audacity. "I detest it. Why should I pretend to like it when I don't?" "Cynthia is one of the lilies of the field; she's just made for ornament," called Roger over his shoulder as he passed into the house. "There is something in being ornamental, isn't there, daughter?" said Mr. Galbraith, dropping into a chair and lighting a fresh cigar. She was decorative, there was no mistake about that. The skirt of heavy white satin clung to her slight figure in faultless lines, and her sweater of a rose shade was no more lovely in tint than was the faint flush in her cheeks. Every hair of th
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