Over and over she re-lived the short scene, — all of its humiliation, all of its hurt, seeking at every turn solace for her woman’s pride.

“Naturally I wanted to help him all I could, to appear, at least, to be interested, especially when he was paying so much for it!  It was only a business arrangement anyway,” she continued bitterly, “nothing but business from start to finish, and if he doesn’t know that yet, he’ll find it out the very first thing tomorrow morning!”

And having tumbled into bed she lay staring into the dark, planning the details of a campaign warranted either to cure or kill the enemy.  Outside, a mocking bird, perched provokingly near her window, kept the night ringing with music.  Resolutely she closed her ears to his song.  But presently, through the faint fragrance of oleanders, other sounds began to penetrate, — the strains of the waltz to which they had danced only the night before.  The little art teacher turned wearily over and cried herself to sleep.

On the morning which followed she rose very early, however, much too early to breakfast with Blair at the little table in the sunny corner.  Instead, she ordered some coffee and toast at Jim’s Waffle Shop in the village and was hard at work sketching on the wharf before eight o’clock.  She had suddenly remembered a promise to sketch Capt.  Warren’s dog holding the gaff, a feat of which both Pal and his master were justifiably proud.  Indeed, so long had the arrangement been made and so entirely had it been neglected, that no one was more surprised than the Captain himself at her unexpected appearance.

“But Pal and me ought to be at the Tuna Club in fifteen minutes, to take a party o’ members out fishin’,” he demurred.  “You can’t paint Pal in no quarter of an hour!”

“I’m sorry to have had to put it off so long,” replied Miss Hastings crisply, “but I’m planning to go home in a few days now, — this afternoon probably.  It’s the only chance I shall have.”  And she prepared to make good the belated promise with such determination that, after a wistful glance or two across the slapping white caps, the old skipper meekly succumbed.

It was here Blair found her an hour or so later.  Unceremoniously he placed himself in front of her, his hands in his pockets, and gave vent to a low whistle.

“Well, of all the — !”

“Oh, is it you, Mr. Blair?” she inquired in cool, sweet tones.  “I thought most probably you’d gone!  Didn’t you say yesterday you intended to as soon as you’d seen the cavern?” Then, after a pause during which Blair said nothing, “I’ve been getting dreadfully behind with my own work, so I thought, if you didn’t mind, I’d try to catch up a little this morning.”

“Certainly not.  Take all the time you want!  We’ve about finished anyway, I guess.”  His coolness matched her own.

Another silence during which she painted furiously.

“I’m making a sketch of Pal holding the gaff,” she ventured at length when the strain had become too uncomfortable.