ike a bit of carved ivory on the sand; he
leaned forward and covered it with his.

"I want to see a great deal of you while I'm down here."

She did not reply, but drew her hand away with a shy diffidence.

"I'll bet I could show you some things that would warm you up all right.
I'm goin' into New York with the swellest bunch of French novelties you
ever seen. I've got a peach-colored Piquette model I've brought over
that's goin' to be the talk of the town."

"A Piquette?"

He laughed delightedly. "Sure! You never heard of the firm? Wait till
you see 'em on show at the openin'. It's got the new butterfly back;
and, believe me, it wasn't no cinch to grab that pattern, neither. I
laid low in Paris two months before I even got a smell at it."

"You talk just like a story-book," she said.

He stretched himself full length on the sand and looked up into her
face. "I'll show you a thing or two when we get back to New York, little
one."

"You ain't like most of the boys I know, Mr. Arnheim. You got something
different about you."

"And you got a face like the kind you see painted on fans--on the order
of a Japanese dame. I got some swell Japanese imports, too."

"Everybody says that about me. I take after paw."

"Say, little one, I want your telephone number when I get back to New
York."

"I'll be pleased to have you call me up, Mr. Arnheim."

"Will I call you up? Well, rather!"

"I know some nice girls I'll introduce you to."

He looked at her insinuatingly. "I know one nice girl, and that's
enough," he said.

"Aw, Mr. Arnheim, of all the jolliers I ever knew you got 'em beat." She
rose to her feet like a gold-colored phoenix from a mound of white sand.
"When I meet a fellow I like I don't want him to tell me nothin' but the
truth."

"That's just the way with me--when I meet a girl that looks good I want
to treat her white, and I want her to do the same by me."

They strolled along the edge of the beach. Once the foaming surf
threatened to lap over her slippers; he caught her deftly and raised her
high above the swirl.

"Oh," she cried, a little breathlessly, "ain't you strong!" Then she
laughed in a high-pitched voice.

They dallied until the moon hardened from a soft, low ball to a
high, yellow disk and the night damp seeped into their clothes. Miss
Sternberger's yellow scarf lay like a limp rag on her shoulders.

"You're a perfect thirty-six, ain't you, little one?"

"That's what they say when