The afternoon I spent in Fairharbor. From a real estate agent I
obtained keys to those cottages on the water-front that were for
rent, and I busied myself exploring them. The one I most liked I
pretended I had rented, and I imagined myself at work among the
flower-beds, or with my telescope scanning the shipping in the
harbor, or at night seated in front of the open fire watching the
green and blue flames of the driftwood. Later, irresolutely, I
wandered across town to Harbor Castle, this time walking entirely
around it and coming upon a sign that read, "Visitors Welcome. Do
not pick the flowers."

Assuring myself that I was moved only by curiosity, I accepted the
invitation, nor, though it would greatly have helped the appearance
of the cemetery-like beds, did I pick the flowers. On a closer view
Harbor Castle certainly possessed features calculated to make an
impecunious author Stop, look, and listen. I pictured it peopled
with my friends. I saw them at the long mahogany table of which
through the French window I got a glimpse, or dancing in the
music-room, or lounging on the wicker chairs on the sweeping
verandas. I could see them in flannels at tennis, in bathing- suits
diving from the spring-board of the swimming pool, departing on
excursions in the motor-cars that at the moment in front of the
garage were being sponged and polished, so that they flashed like
mirrors. And I thought also of the two-thousand-ton yacht and to
what far countries, to what wonderful adventures it might carry me.

But all of these pictures lacked one feature. In none of them did
Polly Briggs appear. For, as I very well knew, that was something
the ambitions of Mrs. Farrell would not permit. That lady wanted me
as a son only because she thought I was a social asset. By the same