"Maybe I'll tell you and maybe I won't," he cried, scooping up a handful of sand and spraying her. "What'll you give me if I tell?"
"Why—nothing."
"Want to know?"
But at the narrowing something in his eyes she sidestepped him, stooping down at the door of her bathhouse for a last scoop of sand at him.
"No," she cried, her hair blown like spray and the same breeze carrying her laughter, guiltless of mood, out to sea.
On the way home, though, for the merest second, there recurred the puzzling quirk in her thoughtlessness.
In the crush of the electric train, packed tightly into the heart of the most yammering and petulant crowd in the world—home-going pleasure seekers—a youth rose to give her his seat. A big, beach-tanned fellow with a cowlick of hair, when he tipped her his hat, standing up off his right brow like a little apostrophe to him, and blue eyes so very wide apart, and so clear, that they ran back into his head like aisles with little lakes shining at the ends of them.
"Thank you," said Marylin, the infinitesimal second while his hat and cowlick lifted, her own gaze seeming to run down those avenues of his eyes for a look into the pools at the back.
"That was it, too, Getaway! The thing that fellow looked—that I couldn't say. He said it—with his eyes."
"Who?"