I have ever
made have been to lead a normal, human life and not a snobbish,
affected one. Eccentric! The conditions under which we live are
eccentric. My only desire is to be normal."

"Life is relative, you know," said Mrs. Wellington. "If you--" she
glanced out the window and saw the Torpedo Station slipping past.
"Why, we are almost in," she said. "Morgan, go out, please, and see if
they have sent a motor for us."

The handful of passengers were filing down to the main deck and Mrs.
Wellington, her daughter, and Emilia followed, where Morgan presently
joined them with the announcement that she had not seen a Wellington
car.

"_Peste!_" murmured Mrs. Wellington. "This is the last of Dawson if he
has n't sent a car. I telegraphed last night."

"Telegrams have been known to go astray," suggested her daughter.

"Rot! So has Dawson," observed Mrs. Wellington.

It was only too plain when they crossed the gang plank that something
or somebody had gone wrong. No automobile or horse-drawn vehicle
bearing the Wellington insignia was at the landing. Having adjusted
herself to the situation upon receiving her maid's report, Mrs.
Wellington immediately signalled two of the less dingy hacks, entered
one with her daughter, leaving the other for the maids.

"The Crags," she said, designating her villa to the hackman, who,
touching his hat with the first sign of respect shown, picked up the
reins. The driver, half turned in his seat to catch any conversation
of an interesting nature, guided his horse to Thames Street and thence
along that quaint, narrow thoroughfare toward Harbor Road.

Miss Wellington glanced at the driver and then looked at her mother
solemnly.

"Do you suppose they will be up yet, mamma?" she said, with a sort of
twanging nasal cadence.

Mrs. Wellington turned her head composedly toward the show windows of a
store.

"I don't see why you won't say what you think, mamma," resumed the
girl. "You know some of these Newporters, so the papers say, do not
breakfast before eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock!" There was an explosion of derisive mirth on the seat
above them. "Ladies," the driver looked down with red cheeks and
watery eyes, "if you expect to see 'Rome' Wellington's people, you 'd
better drive round 'till eleven o'clock. And at that they won't have
the sleep out of their eyes."

"Do these society people really sleep as late as that?" asked the girl.

The driver glanced at her a