Yet the
audacity of her pose had in it a certain fitness and was piquant rather
than offensive.
The instant she crossed the threshold, Robert Morton leaped to meet her
with outstretched hands.
"Cynthia Galbraith!" he cried. "How ever came you here?"
A ripple of teasing laughter came from the girl.
"You are surprised then; I thought you would be."
"Surprised? I can't believe it."
"If you'd written as you should have done, you wouldn't have been at
all amazed to see me," answered the newcomer severely.
"I meant to write," the culprit asserted uneasily.
"Maybe you will inform me what you are doing on Cape Cod," went on the
lady in an accusing tone.
"How did you know I was here?"
"You can't guess?"
"No, I haven't a glimmer."
From the pocket of her shell-pink sweater she drew forth a small white
box of startlingly familiar appearance.
"Does this belong to you?" demanded she.
Beneath the mockery of her eyes Robert Morton could feel the color
mount to his temples.
"Well, well!" he said, with a ghastly attempt at gaiety, "So you were
C.
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