“Yes; but the promiscuous bathing. I don't think I should like that. We are not brought up to that sort of thing in Ohio.”
“No? Ohio is more like France, I suppose?”
“Like France!” exclaimed the old lady, looking at him in amazement—“like France! Why, France is the wickedest place in the world.”
“No doubt it is, Mrs. Benson. But at the sea resorts the sexes bathe separately.”
“Well, now! I suppose they have to there.”
“Yes; the older nations grow, the more self-conscious they become.”
“I don't believe, for all you say, Mr. King, the French have any more conscience than we have.”
“Nor do I, Mrs. Benson. I was only trying to say that they pay more attention to appearances.”
“Well, I was brought up to think it's one thing to appear, and another thing to be,” said Mrs. Benson, as dismissing the subject. “So your friend's an artist? Does he paint? Does he take portraits? There was an artist at Cyrusville last winter who painted portraits, but Irene wouldn't let him do hers. I'm glad we've met Mr. Forbes. I've always wanted to have—”
“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Irene, who always appeared to keep one ear for her mother's conversation, “I was just saying to Mr. Forbes that he ought to see the art exhibitions down at the other end of the promenade, and the pictures of the people who come here in August. Are you rested?”