Along the tree-bordered roads that fringed the shore, other groups in white skirts and flannels were wending their way homeward; flags flew from poles or were draped over doorways; the strains of a waltz drifted seductively from the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club; the blue water of the Sound was dotted with glistening triangles of sails, heeled over and headed in one direction.
“Those are the Stars,” Martin exclaimed; “the race is finishing; number seven seems to have it cinched. That steam yacht over there with all the flags is the judges’ boat.”
They watched for a moment longer. Far out in midstream, one of the Sound steamers was passing; already lights were beginning to twinkle in her cabins.
“Wonderful day,” commented Martin, giving his wife’s hand, as it rested in the crook of his elbow, a squeeze with his arm. They wandered onward. “I’d love to have a home with you in a place like this, with the sailing and swimming and tennis and all this outdoor fun. It’s my idea of living. A fellow Mr. Gibbs introduced me to out on the raft belongs to the Cohasset Beach Club, too. He told me they’ve got some swell tennis courts over there and he was after me to play with him to-morrow.”
“And will you?” Jeannette asked, listlessly.
“Well, I guess I can’t. Mr. Gibbs said something about some friends of theirs asking us all to go sailing to-morrow.”
“That will be nice,” said his wife, still in a lifeless tone, but Martin did not notice.
“By George, I think this is a great place. I was asking Mr. Gibbs about rents, and he tells me we could get a fine little eight-room house for forty a month, and it’s only three-quarters of an hour from town.”
“And what would you do without your theatres and your shows and your little dinners downtown?” smiled Jeannette.
“Oh—they could go hang!”