e asked.

"As long as you," he replied, not taking his eyes from her face.

"Honest?"

"Sure. I don't have to go in to New York for a week or ten days yet. My
season ain't on yet."

She leaned her head against the back of the divan. "All nice things must
end," she said, with the 'cello note in her voice.

"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, with what might have been triple
significance.

They finally walked toward the elevator, loath to part for the interim
of dressing.

That evening they strolled together on the beach until the last lights
of the hotel were blinking out. Then they stole into the semi-dark lobby
like thieves--but soft-voiced, joyous thieves. A few straggling
couples like themselves came in with the same sheepish but bright-eyed
hesitancy. At the elevator Miss Blondheim and Mr. Epstein were lingering
over good-nights.

The quartette rode up to their respective floors together--the girls
regarding each other with shy, happy eyes; the men covering up their
self-consciousness with sallies.

"Ain't you ashamed to keep such late hours, Miss Blondheim?" said Mr.
Arnheim.

"I don't see no early-to-bed-early-to-rise medals on none of us," she
said, diffidently.

"These thummer rethorts sure ain't no plathe for a minither's thon,"
said Mr. Epstein.

Laughter.

"Remember, Mr. Arnheim, whoever's up first wait in the leather chair
opposite the elevator."

"Sure thing, Miss Sternberger."

Her last glance, full of significance, was for Mr. Arnheim. The floor
above he also left the elevator, the smile still on his lips.

Left alone, Mr. Epstein turned to Miss Blondheim.

"Good night, dearie," he whispered. "Thweet dreamth."

"Good night, Louie," she replied. "Same to you."

Mr. Arnheim awoke to a scudding rain; his ocean-ward window-sill
dripping and a great patch of carpet beneath the window dark and soggy.
Downstairs the lobby buzzed with restrained energies; a few venturesome
ones in oils and turned-up collars paced the veranda without.

Mr. Arnheim, in his invariable soft collar and shadow-checked suit,
skirted the edge of the crowd in matinal ill humor and deposited his
room key at the desk. The clerk gave him in return a folded newspaper
and his morning mail.

Mr. Arnheim's morning aspect was undeniable. He suggested too generous
use of soap and bay rum, and his eyes had not lost the swollen heaviness
that comes with too much or too little sleep. He yawned and seated
himself in the heavy