Before them on the shore rose the great Hotel, like a brilliantly lighted mausoleum, blocking out a square patch of stars.
They made towards it.
"Ruth," said Ernie quietly, "if I was you I'd get Madame to change you. Second Floor's more your sort. More steadified. There's a Bishop there now and his wife and three-four daughters or so. Go to bed at ten, and get up at seven. I can hear em all a-snorin in chorus like so many hoggets in a stye when I take the lift down last turn at night."
"Hap I will," said Ruth thoughtfully. "Madame'd take me back herself, only she's got a German maid now, and I wouldn't do anything to put Madame out for worlds."
A struggle was taking place in Ernie's heart. If Ruth left the Third Floor for the Second he would still see her sometimes. If she left the Hotel altogether he might lose her.
"Ruth," he said at last. "I sometimes wonder why you stay on there at all."
She glanced at him mischievously.
"Shall I tell you?" she asked, her voice deeper than ever.
"Yes."
"It's the bathin. I just do adore the swimmin. Madame arranges it nice for the maids. And the season's coming on. We start next week if this weather holds. When the season's over I shall cut my stick—if so be Madame wasn't to want me for her own maid again."