winters in Philadelphia."

"And this Mrs. Benson?"

"No, I'm not going down there to see Mrs. Benson."

Expectancy was the word when our travelers stepped out of the car at
Cape May station. Except for some people who seemed to have business
there, they were the only passengers. It was the ninth of June.
Everything was ready--the sea, the sky, the delicious air, the long line
of gray-colored coast, the omnibuses, the array of hotel tooters. As
they stood waiting in irresolution a grave man of middle age and a
disinterested manner sauntered up to the travelers, and slipped into
friendly relations with them. It was impossible not to incline to a
person so obliging and well stocked with local information. Yes, there
were several good hotels open. It didn't make much difference; there was
one near at hand, not pretentious, but probably as comfortable as any.
People liked the table; last summer used to come there from other hotels
to get a meal. He was going that way, and would walk along with them.
He did, and conversed most interestingly on the way. Our travelers
felicitated themselves upon falling into such good hands, but when
they reached the hotel designated it had such a gloomy and in fact
boardinghouse air that they hesitated, and thought they would like to
walk on a little farther and see the town before settling. And their
friend appeared to feel rather grieved about it, not for himself, but
for them. He had moreover, the expression of a fisherman who has lost a
fish after he supposed it was securely hooked. But our young friends had
been angled for in a good many waters, and they told the landlord, for
it was the landlord, that while they had no doubt his was the best hotel
in the place, they would like to look at some not so good. The one that
attracted them, though they could not see in what the attraction lay,
was a tall building gay with fresh paint in many colors, some pretty
window balconies, and a portico supported by high striped columns that
rose to the fourth story. They were fond of color, and were taken by
six little geraniums planted in a circle amid the sand in front of the
house, which were waiting for the season to open before they began to
grow. With hesitation they stepped upon the newly varnished piazza and
the newly varnished office floor, for every step left a footprint. The
chairs, disposed in a long line on the piazza, waiting for guests, were
also varnished, as the artist discovered when