It was the one place where he could forget that he was no longer the only son of a wealthy father, heir to a respected name--which was NOT Brown--a young man with all sorts of brilliant prospects; could forget that he was now a disinherited vagabond, a loafer who had been unable to secure a respectable position, an outcast.
He swam and dove and splashed, rejoicing in his strength and youth and the freedom of all outdoors.
Then, as he lay lazily paddling in deep water, he heard the rattle of gravel on the steep bank of the other side of the cove.

Looking up, he saw, to his huge disgust, a female figure in a trim bathing suit descending the bluff from the bungalow.

It was the girl who had left him to fight the wasps.

Her dark hair was covered with a jauntily tied colored handkerchief, and, against the yellow sand of the bluff, she made a very pretty picture.

Not that Brown was interested, but she did, nevertheless.
She saw him and waved a hand.