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