Two swimmers rested for breath at an anchorage buoy and smiled at each other.

"Where did you learn to swim, anyhow?" demanded Pete Stearns. "You never said a word about it until this afternoon."

"I don't tell all I know," said Mary, tucking a wet lock under the scarlet cap.

"I believe you. But there's only one thing I'd criticise; you'd get more out of that trudgeon of yours if you watched your breathing."

"I know it," she answered, with a nod. "But I don't take it so seriously as all that. I've always managed to get along, anyhow."

Pete blinked the salt water out of his eyes and studied the social secretary with new respect.

"You haven't ever been a diving beauty or a movie bathing girl or anything like that, have you?"

Mary laughed. "Not yet, thank you. I never made any money out of swimming."

"Oh, they don't swim," said Pete. "They just dress for it."

"Well, I never did that, either."

"But you could if you wanted to."

"That will do," said Mary.

Even in the democratic embrace of Larchmont Harbor she did not think it advisable for her employer's valet to venture into the realm of personal compliment. Besides, she was not wholly convinced of the validity of his status as a valet. For one thing, she had never heard of a valet who could swim, and by swimming she meant more than the ordinary paddling about of the average human. For Mary could swim herself and she had discovered that Pete was something more than her equal.

"Well, anyhow," he said, "you're a first-class seagoing secretary. Did you notice Mr. Marshall standing on the bridge? I think he saw us."

"I'm quite sure he did. And I believe we'd better be starting back."

"Is it a race?"

"You never can tell," said Mary, as she slid off the buoy like a seal and shot along under the surface for a dozen feet.

Pete fell in beside her and let her set the pace. It was a smart one and he did not try to take the lead; he was saving himself for the sprint. For several minutes Mary attended strictly to her work. They were reaching mid-harbor when she eased up and raised her head to take a bearing for the Sunshine. Then she ceased swimming altogether and began to tread.

"Why, where's the yacht?" she said.

Pete also paused for a survey.

"They've moved it, haven't they? Well, I'll——"

He made a slow and deliberate inspection of the horizon.

"Is that it?" and Mary pointed.

Pete studied a stern view of a somewhat distant craft, shading his eyes from the sun.

"That's it," he announced. "And it's still moving."

"They must be going to anchor in another place. I think they might have waited until we reached them. Shall we follow?"

She did not wait for an answer, but fell once more into a steady trudgeon stroke that served her extremely well. Then she paused for another reconnaissance.

"The darn thing is still moving," declared Pete. "It's further off than when we first saw it. Now, what do you make out of that?"

Mary wrinkled her forehead into a moist frown as the water dripped from the tip of her nose.

"It's perfectly silly to try to catch it by swimming," she said. "They must have forgotten all about us. Why didn't they blow a whistle, or something?"

There was no question that the silhouette of the Sunshine had receded since their first observation. Pete tried to judge the distance; it was more than half a mile, he was certain.

"Well, what'll we do? Paddle around here and wait for it to come back?"

"I don't mind admitting that I'm a little bit tired," said Mary. "I'm not going to wait out here in the middle of the bay for Mr. Marshall to turn his yacht around. How far is it over to that shore?"

"It's only a few hundred yards. Shall we go?"

"We'll go there and wait until we see what they're going to do."

Several minutes afterward Pete stood waist deep on a sandy bottom. There was a tiny beach in front of them, where a cove nestled between two rocky horns. He gazed out into the harbor.

"It's still going—the other way," he reported.

Mary was also standing and staring. The Sunshine looked discouragingly small.

"Oh, well, we'll sit on the beach and get some sun. If Bill—if Mr. Marshall thinks he's having fun with us he's greatly mistaken. I'm having the time of my ecclesiastical life."

He waded ashore and sat down on the sand. But Mary did not follow. She stood immersed to her waist, biting her lip. There was a look of annoyance and a hint of confusion in her eyes.

"You'd better come ashore and rest," called Pete. "You'll get chilled standing half in and half out of the water."

"I—I can't come ashore very well," said Mary.

"What's the matter?"

She was flushing under her freckles.

"When we decided to swim around the harbor," she said, slowly, "I—er—slipped off the skirt of my bathing suit and tossed it up to one of the deck-hands to keep for me until I got back. And it's aboard the yacht now."

Pete stifled a grin.

"It—it wasn't a very big skirt," she added. "But it was a skirt."

"Oh, forget it," he advised. "Don't mind me. Come on out of the water."

But Mary was again studying the retreating yacht. At that instant she would have liked to have laid hands on Bill Marshall. Not only the skirt of her bathing suit, but every stitch she owned was aboard that yacht.

"I'm only a valet," Pete reminded her.

Mary was not at all certain about that, but she decided not to be foolish any longer. She waded ashore. There was something boyish about her as she emerged full length into the picture, yet not too boyish. Not only was she lacking a skirt, but also stockings, for when Mary went swimming she put aside frills. The scarlet bathing cap gave her a charming jauntiness; although she was anything but jaunty in mood.

"My, but the sun is comfortable," she said, as she sat down and dug her toes into the sand.

"It'll warm you up," said Pete, affecting to take no notice of her costume. "Say, what do you make out of that yacht, anyhow?"

"It seems to be still going. It looks awfully small to me."

They watched it for another minute.

"There's another landing down that way, where they're headed," said Pete. "Maybe they want to send somebody up to town for something."

"You've been here before, haven't you?"

"Oh, I've valeted 'round a bit in the summers, miss."

She gave him a swift, sidelong glance. Out in the harbor he had dropped the "miss"; the water seemed to have washed away his surface servility. Now he was falling back into the manner of his calling.

"They can't go much farther in that direction," he added. "They've either got to anchor, turn around or stand out for the mouth of the harbor. We'll know in a minute or two, miss."

"Please stop calling me 'miss,'" she said, sharply.

"Why?" He turned innocent eyes toward her.

"It annoys me."

"Oh, very well. But I didn't want you to feel that I was forgetting my place. Once you reminded me——"

"Never mind, if you please. I think one of your troubles is that you are too conscious of your 'place,' as you call it. You make other people conscious of it."

"I'm unconscious from now on, Miss Way—Miss Norcross."

She whirled around upon him in fair earnest.

"Excuse me," said Pete. "I get the names mixed. I'm apt to do the same thing when I'm with your friend Miss Wayne."

She studied him with uneasy eyes. How much did he know? Or was he just blundering clumsily around on the brink of a discovery? Last night he had flung a pointed hint at her; it came to her mind now. Well, if there was to be a battle, Mary felt that she was not without her weapons. She knew of a divinity student who followed the prize ring and who kissed the house guests of the master to whom he played valet.

"She's swinging around," said Pete, abruptly, pointing out into the harbor.

The Sunshine was turning to port and now showed her profile. But she was not turning far enough to cruise back in her own wake. Her new course was almost at a right angle to that she had been following, and she seemed bent upon pursuing it briskly.

Pete gasped and leaped to his feet.

"Come on!" he cried.

The rocky promontory that sheltered one end of their little beach was cutting off a view of the yacht. He raced along the strip of sand, with Mary at his heels, quite unconscious of her missing skirt and certainly a gainer in freedom of movement through the lack of it.

Pete climbed the rocks at reckless speed and she followed him, heedless of the rough places. He was poised rigidly on an eminence as she scrambled up beside him.

"Damnation!"

He said it so fervently that it seemed to Mary the most sincere word he had ever spoken.

"Do you see what they're doing?" he cried, seizing her arm. "Look! They're heading out of the harbor!"

"You mean they're leaving us?"

He shook her arm almost savagely.

"Can't you see? There they go. They're headed out, I tell you. They're going out into the Sound!"

The yacht seemed to be gaining in speed.

"But I just can't believe it," she said, in a stifled voice.

"You'd better, then. Look!"

"But I'm sure that Mr. Marshall wouldn't——"

"Oh, you are, are you? Well, I'll prove to you in about one holy minute that he'll do whatever comes into his crazy head. Take your last look. They're on their way."

Nor had they long to wait in order to be convinced beyond argument. Even at the distance that separated them from the Sunshine they could see the white bone in her teeth as she continued to pick up speed. And then she was gone, beyond a jutting point that barred their vision.

Pete looked at Mary. Mary looked at Pete. Both looked again toward the spot where they caught their last glimpse of the Sunshine. Then, with one accord and without speech, they slowly descended to the beach and sat in the sand. A thin, blue cloud of rage seemed to have descended upon them.

Minutes afterward she flung a handful of sand at an innocent darning needle that was treading air directly in front of her.

"Oh, say something!" she cried.

"You'd censor it, Mlle. Secretary."

"I wouldn't!"

Pete lifted his eyes to the heavens and swore horribly.

"That's better," she said. "But you needn't do it any more. Now what are we going to do?"

"Wait for the commander-in-chief to get over his practical joke, I suppose."

"Then, this is your idea of a joke, is it?"

"Not mine; his," said Pete. "And it's not so bad, at that."

Mary tried to wither him with a look.

"I believe you don't care," she said, stormily.

"Oh, yes, I do. But I'm all over the rage part of it. What's the use?"

"Well, think of something, then."

"I don't think it even requires thinking. What is there to do but sit here and wait?"

Mary gritted her teeth.

"That may be all right for you," she said, coldly. "But it seems absolutely futile to me. We don't know whether they'll ever come back."

"Oh, they're bound to."

"They're not, anything of the kind! He's done it deliberately; I'm sure of it. I wish I had him here for about two minutes."

"I wish you had," said Pete, earnestly. "I'd pay for a grand stand seat."

"I'd tell him what I think of him."

"You sure would."

"I never felt so helpless in my life. All I'm doing is getting sunburned. I'll be a fright."

"If it's freckles you're worrying about, he likes 'em."

"Oh, don't talk about them." She had a sudden craving for a mirror. But beyond that boyish bathing suit and the scarlet rubber cap, Mary did not even possess so much as a hairpin. She would have given a million dollars for a kimono and a vanity bag.

"At a rough guess," mused Pete, "I'd say we're the first persons who were ever shipwrecked on a society coast. Didn't you ever feel a yearning to be marooned?"

"Never—and I never will, after this."

"Well, we're better off than a lot of castaways. We're not on an island. We can walk home, if it comes to that."

"Walk! Dressed like this?"

"Swim, then."

Mary relapsed into a fit of exasperated silence. If Pete's rage had cooled, her own was still at cherry heat. She felt ready to take the whole world by the throat and shake revenge out of it, particularly out of Bill Marshall. But she was helpless even to start upon the warpath. A girl in a bathing suit, the skirt of which had been carried to sea by a ruthless yacht, is not panoplied for a campaign. She felt shamed, outraged, desperate to the point of violence—and futile. It seemed quite possible, as she viewed it then, that she might be compelled to sit on that beach for the remainder of her life. Certainly she did not intend to walk around Larchmont in a costume designed only for the Australian crawl.

Pete was devoting time to a survey of their immediate environment. The beach was not more than ten yards in breadth; it was bounded on either side by the little capes of rock, and behind them by a low stone wall. A well-rolled and clipped lawn came down to the edge of the wall; it was studded with trees and shrubs. The gable of a dwelling was visible through an opening. As Pete studied the landscape a figure appeared from among the trees.

It was that of a young man in white flannels. He approached to the top of the stone wall and observed them carefully.

"This is a private beach," said the young man, speaking in a peculiar drawl that Pete immediately identified with the world of exclusive society.

Mary, until then unaware of the presence of a third person, turned quickly, observed the speaker and huddled her knees under her chin.

"Well, we're private citizens," said Pete.

"We do not permit trespassing," said the young man.

"Do you by any chance permit Divine Providence to deposit a pair of shipwrecked castaways on your seacoast?" inquired the valet.

The young man in flannels appeared to be puzzled. He was now studying Mary with particular attention. Then he glanced quickly from side to side, as though searching for something else.

"We never permit motion pictures to be taken here," he said. "Oblige me by going away."

"My dear sir," said Pete, who had risen to his feet, "we are not in the movies. We are not here for fame or for profit. We do not occupy your beach either in the interests of art or health. We are merely here as the result of a contingency, a hazard of fortune, a mischance of fate."

"Well, go away."

The young man stepped down on the beach and approached for a closer view.

Pete turned and whispered to Mary:

"Shall we steal his beautiful clothes and divide 'em up?"

"Hush!" she said.

The owner of the white flannels, which Pete was coveting with envious eyes, studied Mary until she began to blush.

"We do not wish to have this kind of a display on our private waterfront," he remarked. "You must leave at once."

Mary sprang up, her gray eyes dangerous.

"Can't you see that we're in distress?" she cried, hotly.

He surveyed her deliberately—her legs, bare from the knees down, her skirtless trunks, her white, rounded arms.

"I can see very little of anything," was his comment.

"Why, you——"

But even though she choked on her words, there was no need for her to finish them. Pete stepped to within a yard of the stranger.

"I don't like the color of your hair," he said, "and that, of course, leaves me no alternative."

So he tapped the young man on the nose, so unexpectedly and with such speed and virility that the owner of the nose lost his balance and sat in the sand.

Pete turned and seized Mary by the hand.

"Run like hell," he counseled.

"But where?"

"Overboard."

He dragged her across the sand and out into the water. Waist deep they paused and looked back.

The young man in flannels had followed to the edge of the water, where he stood holding a handkerchief to his nose and shaking a fist.

"You come ashore!" he yelled.

"We can't, sir. It's private," said Pete, with a bland grin.

"Come back here. I'm going to thrash you!"

"We can't come back," said Pete, "but we invite you to join us, dear old thing."

The young man stood irresolute, glaring at them. Then he looked down at his flannels and edged backward a step from the water.

"I'm going to have you arrested!" he cried, as he turned and ran in the direction of the house.

Pete waved him a gay salute.

"Well, come on," he said to Mary.

"Where?"

"To a more friendly coast. We can't use this one any more."

He struck out into the harbor and Mary followed.