face--"

"Who's that at the gate, Willie?" called Celestina from the kitchen.

"What?"

"There's somebody at the gate in a big red automobile. She's comin'
in. You go an' see what she wants, 'cause my apron ain't fresh.
Likely she's lost her way or else is huntin' board."

Although Willie shuffled obediently into the hall he was not in time to
prevent the sonorous peal of the bell.

"Yes, he's here," they heard him say. "Of course you can speak to him.
He's just inside. Won't you step in?"

Then without further ado, and with utter disregard of Celestina's
rumpled apron, the door opened and the little inventor ushered into the
string-entangled sitting room a dainty, city-bred girl in a sport suit
of white serge. She was not only pretty but she was perfectly groomed
and was possessed of a fascinating vivacity and charm. Everything
about her was vivid: the gloss of her brown hair, the sparkle of her
eyes, her color, her smile, her immaculate clothes--all were dazzling.
She carried her splendor with an air of complete sureness as if she was
accustomed to the supremacy it won for her and expected it. 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. L. G."

"Naturally. Didn't the initials suggest the possibility?"

"No--eh--yes; that is, I hadn't thought about it," he floundered.
"It's funny how things come about sometimes, isn't it? I want you to
meet my aunt, Miss Morton, and my friend Mr. S