the sand.

Kent paused in the beginning of his attack on his last sandwich to look
Lydia over. She was as thin as a half-grown chicken in her wet bathing
suit. Her damp curls, clinging to her head and her eyes a little heavy
with heat and weariness after her morning of play, made her look
scarcely older than Patience. Kent wouldn't confess, even to himself,
how fond he was of Lydia.

"Here," he said gruffly. "I can't eat this sandwich. Mother made me
too many. And here's a doughnut."

"Thanks, Kent," said Lydia meekly. "What do you want to play, after
lunch?"

"Robinson Crusoe," replied Kent promptly. "You'll have to be
Friday."

As recipient of his bounty, Lydia recognized Kent's advantage and
conceded the point without protest.

She held Patience's abbreviated bathing suit skirt with one hand.
"Where are you heading for, baby?" she asked.

"Mardy! Mardy!" screamed Patience, tugging at her leash.

"Oh, rats, it's Margery Marshall. Look at the duds on her. She makes
me sick," groaned Kent.

"She's crazy about little Patience," answered Lydia, "so I put up with