"Say, little one, I want your telephone number when I get back to New
York."
"I'll be pleased to have you call me up, Mr. Arnheim."
"Will I call you up? Well, rather!"
"I know some nice girls I'll introduce you to."
He looked at her insinuatingly. "I know one nice girl, and that's enough," he said.
"Aw, Mr. Arnheim, of all the jolliers I ever knew you got 'em beat." She rose to her feet like a gold-colored phoenix from a mound of white sand. "When I meet a fellow I like I don't want him to tell me nothin' but the truth."
"That's just the way with me—when I meet a girl that looks good I want to treat her white, and I want her to do the same by me."
They strolled along the edge of the beach. Once the foaming surf threatened to lap over her slippers; he caught her deftly and raised her high above the swirl.
"Oh," she cried, a little breathlessly, "ain't you strong!" Then she laughed in a high-pitched voice.
They dallied until the moon hardened from a soft, low ball to a high, yellow disk and the night damp seeped into their clothes. Miss Sternberger's yellow scarf lay like a limp rag on her shoulders.