t the end. But it is the only way in
the world, and the people who so pronounce it are usually the only
people in the world who can make it.

"Who is Mr. Cope?" Becky asked.

Mr. Cope, it seemed, had a cottage across the road from the Admiral's.
He leased it, and it was his first season at 'Sconset. His sister had
been with him only a week ago. She had gone "off-shore," but she was
coming back.

"Is he young?" Becky asked.

"Well, he isn't old," said Jane, "and he's an artist."

Becky was not in the least interested in Mr. Cope, so she talked to
Tristram until he had to go back to his farm and the cows that waited to
be milked. Then Becky went into her room, and took off her hat and coat
and ran a comb through the bronze waves of her hair. She did not change
the straight serge frock in which she had travelled. She went back into
the front room and found that Mr. Cope had come.

He was not old. That was at once apparent. And he was not young. He did
not look in the least like an artist. He seemed, rather, like a
prosperous business man. He wore a Norfolk suit, and his reddish hair
was brushed straight back from his forehead. He had rather humorous gray
eyes, and Becky thought there was a look of delicacy about his white
skin. Later he spoke of having come for his health, and she learned that
he had a weak heart.

He had a pleasant laughing voice. He belonged to Boston, but had lived
abroad for years.

"With nothing to show for it," he told her with a shrug, "but one
portrait. I painted my sister, and she kept that. But before we left
Paris we burned the rest----"

"Oh, how dreadful," Becky cried.

"No, it wasn't dreadful. They were not worth keeping. You see, I played
a lot and made sketches and things, and then there was the war--and I
wasn't very well."

He had had two years of aviation, and after that a desk in the War
Department.

"And now I am painting again."

"Gardens?" Becky asked, "or the sea?"

"Neither. I am trying to paint the moor. I'll show you in the morning."

The Admiral was in the kitchen, superintending the chowder. Jane knew
how to make it, and he knew that she knew. But he always went into the
kitchen at the psychological moment, tied on an apron, and put in the
pilot crackers. Then he brought the chowder in, in a big porcelain
tureen which was shaped like a goose. Becky loved him in his white
apron, with his round red face, and the porcelain goose held high.

"If you could pain