on Long Island,
palaces at Newport and Len ox and Palm Beach. During the war he had
served rather comfortably in a becoming uniform in the Quartermaster's
Department in Washington. Now that the war was over, he regretted the
becomings of the uniform. He felt to-day, however, that there were
compensations in his hunting pink. He was slightly bronzed and had blue
eyes. He was extremely popular with the women of the Waterman set, but
was held to be the especial property of Madge MacVeigh.

Madge had observed his interest in the party on the hill.

"George," she said, "what are you looking at?"

"I am looking at those people who are picnicking. They probably have
ants in the salad and spiders in their coffee."

"They are getting more out of it than you and I," said Madge.

"How getting more?"

"We are tired of things, Georgie-Porgie."

"Speak for yourself, Madge."

"I am speaking for both of us. You are tired of me, for example."

"My dear girl, I am not."

"You are. And I am tired of you. It's not your fault, and it's not mine.
It is the fault of any house-party. People see too much of each other.
I am glad I am going away to-morrow, and you'll be glad. And when we
have been separated a month, you will rush up to see me, and say you
couldn't live without me."

She dissected him coolly. Madge had a modern way of looking at things.
She was not in the least sentimental. But she had big moments of
feeling. It was because of this deep current which swept her away now
and then from the shallows that she held Dalton's interest. He never
knew in what mood he should find her, and it added spice to their
friendship.

"I didn't know you were going to-morrow."

"Neither did I till this morning, but I am bored to death, Georgie."

She did not look it. She was long-limbed, slender, with heavy
burned-gold hair, a skin which was pale gold after a July by the sea.
The mauve of her dress and hat emphasized the gold of hair and skin.
Some one had said that Madge MacVeigh at the end of a summer gave the
effect of a statue cast in new bronze. Dalton in the early days of their
friendship had called her his "Golden Girl." The name had stuck to her.
She had laughed at it but had liked it. "I should hate it," she had
said, "if I were rich. Perhaps some day some millionaire will turn me
into gold and make it true."

"Just because you are bored to death," Dalton told her, "is no reason
why you should accuse me of it."

"It isn't