Except for Pete, he was the first one on the beach. The sun had not yet reached its full power, but already the day was scorching. It might be his last morning in Sconset—it should be, if he had any sense at all (though in his heart he knew it wasn’t)—and he wanted to get the most out of it, even though it was no fun alone and he was far from being in the mood to enjoy himself. Ethel had left yesterday afternoon; he couldn’t very well stay on much longer without her. Already their quarrel was public enough; but curiously this didn’t seem to matter any longer.

Pete had raked the beach clean and was now setting up the sunshades. “You’re early this morning, Mr. Grandin.”

“A little.”

At dinner last evening he had explained to the Haumans—and later to the Howards—that Ethel had received a wire from home, something about the children, and had had to go; she had asked him, he said, to say good-­bye for her. Whether Cliff and Billie wondered or not—whether the Howards surmised what was up—he was past caring. The one thing that mattered was that Ethel had left him, their holiday was ruined, perhaps even their whole future, in spite of the fact that he had done his very best to be honest with her.

He had to accept it. When he came down to breakfast alone this morning, Miss Fly for once didn’t try to cajole him with bright amenities; on the contrary, she seemed peculiarly embarrassed and, when she came near him, she was almost gloomily silent; she avoided his table as much as possible and ostentatiously spent a quarter of an hour visiting with the Eklunds, mother and son, chattering a little too loudly, it seemed to him, though they answered back fully as loud, in a vain effort to make themselves understood. He looked at Arne Eklund but received no answering look in return. He was not surprised; for by not introducing him to the Haumans, he had long since done himself out of that young man’s friendship. Immediately after breakfast he got into his shorts and robe and went to the beach.