r a summons Susette appeared with the alluring orchid garment, and a
white film of seed-pearls for her mistress's hair. She assisted the
Violet's discreet Japanese butler to put them into the big car, which
Mr. Farraday was driving himself, and then stood for a minute watching
them hurl themselves away across the white sand.

"_Quelle vie!_" she muttered to herself as she turned back into the
darkened house.

The Beach Inn was aglow and atwinkle and in full laugh as they ascended
the steps of the wide veranda hung out over the ocean, where members and
guests were having supper at small tables lit with shaded lamps. Men and
girls, in bathing suits that were lineal descendants of the scant
fig-leaf, were eating and drinking together sparsely because of their
intention of taking a midnight plunge in the breakers under the hot
moon, while other women in radiant evening garb were almost as scantily
attired, though attended by stuffily garbed men. Most of the parties
turned and called a laughing greeting to the Violet, for they were the
men and women of her world disporting themselves away from Broadway, and
Clyde Trevor, who had written the book for "Miss Cut-up," rose and came
over to claim his guests.

"Lost Van?" he questioned, as he led them to their seats beside Mrs.
Trevor, who had danced fifty thousand dollars out of New York the winter
just ended. His voice held a hint of irony, which the Violet got and Mr.
Dennis Farraday missed.

"Not quite yet," she said, with a coo at which Trevor smiled, and under
his breath he gave her the word, "Good hunting!"

"Thanks."

"Old Van had to hop back to New York on the eleven-fifteen, but we came
on to glad with you anyway," Mr. Farraday was saying to Mrs. Trevor,
with an ingenuous smile.

"Go to it, baby," commanded Trevor to his wife, as a rich negro melody
began to fling its invitation against the roaring call of the ocean, and
at his word Simone rose from the seat of Mrs. Trevor and slid out into
the cleared space at the head of the steps.

"Just in time," commented Mr. Farraday under his breath, as he turned
his chair to watch her drop her silk coat, and float out on the waves of
sound just as she would later float on the waves of the ocean after she
had plunged from the steps to lead the midnight bathing in the surf, for
which the management of the inn paid her the sum of two hundred dollars
per plunge.

All of this gaiety and amusement was just a prelude to the r