"Then it must be but for a week or two. I mustn't stay where I can't work."
"You'll stay," nodded Violet. "You'll live under a rock if necessary and catch fish for food."
"Are you so enthusiastic?"
"Isn't everybody?"
"Nobody, that I have heard. Eliza spoke of it like facing grim death. Edgar says it gives him the 'Willies,' whatever they may be. Aunt Isabel goes because her husband wants to sail."
"Did Mr. Fabian say it gave him the 'Willies'?" asked Violet, her cheeks rose and her eyes dark again. "Why does he go, then?"
"I didn't ask him; but a bare hill lying in a wet fog doesn't sound inviting even if one may occasionally catch a glimpse of the sea. You know the sea and I are strangers."
"Did Kathleen talk to you about it?" asked Violet, the hurt spot in her pride still smarting, as memory showed her pictures of waves sparkling in moonlight, and song that turned the scene into enchantment.
"No, I believe we never mentioned the summer. She talked to me of college and I talked to her of my one dissipation of the autumn, an evening over there at the Players' Club,"—Phil nodded over his shoulder toward the club windows,—"and the wit and wisdom I heard."
"I judge you have friends in the park," said Violet.