John Grandin awoke from a nap. The sun was low; it was late afternoon. He had been sleeping since the Haumans left at three. (“We’ve had a wonderful time, John, it’s been swell, it really has, honestly I mean it.”) He had slept hard, so hard that now he felt out of sorts, dull, not rested. It was after six o’clock. Ethel was not in the room. As he sat up and tried to shake himself fully awake, she came in.

“I’ve been unconscious practically the whole afternoon,” he said. “Can’t say I feel better for it, either.”

“Put some cold water on your face.”

“Yes . . .”

He pulled off his shirt and went into the bathroom. He filled the washbowl, then splashed water over his eyes and forehead. Observing his face in the glass, he didn’t know when he had seen himself looking so tired, so much in need of sleep. The nap had done him no good, the cold water did not refresh him. He felt a pressure back of his eyes like a headache: the cocktails before lunch, perhaps, or too much exposure to the sun.

A couple of drinks before dinner helped some, but dinner itself was a dismal affair. Both he and Ethel felt strangely let down; the Haumans had taken a great deal out of their day. They now felt disinclined to talk and did not bother to do so; tonight, for some reason, it didn’t matter. Toward the finish, their meal was enlivened by the appearance at their table of the yellow-­haired young man.

His mother had gone through to the lobby but he stopped to greet the Grandins cordially and to introduce himself. His name was Arne Eklund, he confided; his parents were Scandinavians; his father had died when Arne was four years old.

He stood at the table in an attitude of self-­conscious grace. In spite of the disconcerting glitter of his appearance, he was an amiable young man, well mannered, interesting, and at last friendly. For some reason of his own he explained that he was not in the service because he was sole support of his mother and two sisters; it developed further that he was a well-­known decorator from Chicago.

“I create interiors—for people on the North Shore with too much money and no taste,” he said good-­humoredly; and something in his attitude seemed to indicate that he was mocking himself as well as the rich. “By the by,” he added, “I couldn’t help noticing your guests this noon. I should love to have met them. I thought the girl a ravishing creature.”

“I don’t see why that can’t be arranged,” Grandin said; “that is, if they come to Sconset again.”

“Oh, you’re not old friends?”

He explained the circumstance of their knowing the Haumans, and Mr. Eklund took his leave.

“It’s time to put in a call for home,” Ethel said.