Indeed, I think he was very much
worse. If Philip hadn't wandered about in the garb of Herodotus and
murmured that impertinence about 'frost in Florida' it wouldn't have
been so bad. It's a very unfortunate thing, however, that he never
seems to remember one's displeasure or the cause of it."
But for one who rejoiced in Mr. Poynter's belated inheritance of common
sense, Diane's comment a few days later was very singular.
"I wonder," she reflected uncomfortably, "if Philip understands smoke
signals. He may be lost."
But Philip was not lost. He was merely discreet.
A lonely beach fringed in sand hills lay before the camp. Beyond
rolled the ocean, itself a melancholy solitude droning under an azure
sky. There were beach birds running in flocks down the sand as the
white-ridged foam receded; overhead an Indian file of pelicans winged
briskly out to sea.
On the broad, hard beach to the north presently appeared a
music-machine. Piebald horse, broad, eccentric wagon, cymbals and
drum--there was no mistaking the outfit, nor the minstrel himself with
his broad-brimmed sombrero tipped protectively over his nose.
Now despite the fact that the Baron had hinted that Ronador's
masquerade was at an end, the music-machine steadily approached and
halted.
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