On the stoop of the club a small band was playing, and a bevy of young people were dancing.
Following in the wake of the last sloop a yawl with a dingey in tow was coming towards the quay.
Seeing that Tootles was in one of her ecstatic moods and was deaf to remarks, Irene saved her words to cool her porridge and watched the incoming yawl.

She did so at first without much interest.

It was merely a sailboat to her city eyes, and her good lines and good management meant nothing.

But as she came nearer something familiar in the cut of the man at her helm caught her attention.

Surely those broad shoulders and that deep chest and small head could belong only to Martin Gray?
They did, they did.