turb his
'privacy,' as Harry calls it. Did you ever see such a spot?"

"Wonderful!" echoed Edith, equally impressed by the luxuriant bloom on
either side of the driveway. "Thank Heaven here is a man who knows how
not to vulgarize flowers."

As they reached the front of the coraline stone house the owner stepped
forward to greet them. He was a man of striking appearance, and his
visitors found their attention at once diverted from the beauty
surrounding them to the personality which manifested itself even in this
brief moment of their meeting. He was fairly tall, but slight, the
narrowness of his face being accentuated by the closely-cropped beard.
As he removed his broad panama he disclosed a heavy head of hair, well
turned to grey, which, with the darkness of his complexion, was set off
by the white doe-skin suit he wore. As he came nearer his visitors were
instinctively impressed by the expression of his face, for the high
forehead, the deep, restless, yet penetrating eyes, the refined yet
unsatisfied lines of the mouth, belonged to the ascetic rather than to
the cottager, to the spiritual seeker for the unattainable rather than
to the owner of an estate such as this.

"I am glad you discounted my apparent inhospitality," he said, with
pleasant dignity. "The tourists would overrun me if I did not take some
such measure to protect myself; but I am always glad to welcome any one
whose interest is more than curiosity."

"It is good of you to make a virtue out of our presumption," Marian
replied as their host assisted them to alight. Then their eyes met and
there was instant recognition.

"Philip!" she cried in utter amazement. "Is it possible that this is
you--here?"

The man bowed until his face almost touched the hand he still held, and
the surprise seemed for the moment to deprive him of power of speech. He
courteously motioned his guests to precede him through an arbor of
_poinsettia_ into a tropical garden on a cliff overhanging the water.

"Harry," Marian continued, still excited by her experience, "this is
Philip Hamlen--you've heard me speak so many times of him. My husband,
Mr. Thatcher, Philip," she added, as the two men shook hands; then she
presented him to the Stevenses.

Outwardly Hamlen showed none of the confusion which Marian so plainly
manifested. He was the self-contained host, seemingly interested in the
coincidence of the unexpected meeting, but by no means exercised over
it.

"Welcome to