"No—Simon"—she danced to her feet and tossed the hair back from her face—"I ain't tired."
They walked down the beach toward the bathhouse, humming softly to themselves.
"I'll be out in ten minutes," she said, pausing at the door of her locker.
"Me too," he said.
When they met again they were regroomed and full of verve. She was as cool as a rose. They laughed at their crinkly finger-tips—wrinkled by the water like parchment; and his neck, where it rose above the soft high collar, was branded by the sun a flaming red.
"Gee!" she cried. "Ain't you sunburnt!"
"I always tan red," he said.
"And me, I always tan tan."
They exchanged these pithy and inspired bits of autobiography in warm, intimate tones. At their hotel steps she sighed with a delicious weariness.
"I wish I could do everything for you, little one—even walk up-stairs."