The May Girl's voice sounded very tired, not irritable, but very tired.
"Oh, if there's anything in the world that I hate," I heard her cry out, "it's that proverb! What people really mean by it," she protested, "is, 'Whatever's worth doing at all is worth doing Swell.' And it isn't either! I tell you I like simple things best! All I ever want to do with my shells tonight is just to chuck 'em behind the door!"
Truly if Claude Kennilworth hadn't turned up for supper all in white flannels and looking like a young god, I don't know just what I should have done. Everybody seemed either so tired or so distrait.
The tide would be low at ten o'clock. It was eight when we sat down to supper.
Ann Woltor I'm sure never took her eyes from the clock.
But to be perfectly frank everybody else at the table except the May Girl seemed to be diverting such attention as he or she retained to the personal appearance of Claude Kennilworth. Truly it wasn't right that anyone who had been so hateful all day long should be able to look so perfectly glorious in the evening.
"Where did you get the suit?" said Rollins. "Is it your own?"
"And the permanent wave?" questioned the Bride. "I think you and the ocean must patronize the same hair dresser."
"Dark men always do look so fine in white flannels," whispered Ann Woltor to my Husband.
"Personally," beamed Paul Brenswick, "you look to me like a person who had imported his own Turkish bath."