The afternoon waned; the lobby thinned; the dowagers and their daughters asked for room keys and disappeared for siestas and more mysterious processes; children trailed off to rest; the hot land-breezes, dry and listless, stirred the lace curtains of the parlor—but they remained on the plush divan, rapt as might have been Paolo and Francesca in their romance-imbued arbor.
"How long will you be down here?" she asked.
"As long as you," he replied, not taking his eyes from her face.
"Honest?"
"Sure. I don't have to go in to New York for a week or ten days yet. My season ain't on yet."
She leaned her head against the back of the divan. "All nice things must end," she said, with the 'cello note in her voice.
"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, with what might have been triple significance.
They finally walked toward the elevator, loath to part for the interim of dressing.
That evening they strolled together on the beach until the last lights of the hotel were blinking out. Then they stole into the semi-dark lobby like thieves—but soft-voiced, joyous thieves. A few straggling couples like themselves came in with the same sheepish but bright-eyed hesitancy. At the elevator Miss Blondheim and Mr. Epstein were lingering over good-nights.
The quartette rode up to their respective floors together—the girls regarding each other with shy, happy eyes; the men covering up their self-consciousness with sallies.