VI.
THE SIXTH CONVERSATION.
Tuesday, September 5, 1882. (Evening.)
A row of Japanese lanterns shed a Cathayan light along the little path leading from the Duchess’s house on a rocky promontory to the little beach which nestled under its shoulder. The moon softly and judiciously lit up the baby breakers which in Long Island Sound imitate the surf of the outer sea. It threw eerie shadows behind the bath-houses, and fell with gentle radiance upon two dripping but shapely figures emerging from the water, where the other bathers were unwisely lingering.
Dear Jones: I think this is simply delightful. I really never got the perfect enjoyment of an evening swim before.
Baby Van Rensselaer: I am glad you enjoyed it.
Dear Jones: There is something so charming in this aristocratic seclusion, with the shouts and laughter of the vulgar herd just far enough off to be picturesque—if you can call a noise picturesque.
Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly]: I think this beach might be a little more private—it’s shared in common by these three cottages.
Dear Jones: But they seem to be very nice people here. And they all swim so well, it quite put me on my mettle. You are really a splendid swimmer, do you know it? And that girl I towed out to the buoy, who is she?
Baby Van Rensselaer [explosively]: Mr. Jones, this is positively insulting!