Mrs. Blondheim rolled her crochet into a tight ball and stuck her needle upright. "Come on, Bella; let's go to bed."
They trailed past the desk like birds with damp feathers.
"Send up some ice-water to three-hundred-and-eighteen," said Miss Bella over the counter, her eyes straining meanwhile past the veranda to the beach below.
Without, a moon low and heavy and red came out from the horizon; it cast a copper-gold band across the water.
"Let's go down to the edge, kiddo."
Mr. Arnheim helped Miss Sternberger plow daintily through the sand.
"If I get sand in my shoes I'll blame you, Mr. Arnheim."
"Little slippers like yours can't hold much."
She giggled.
They seated themselves like small dunes on the white expanse of beach; he drew his knees up under his chin and nursed them.