The Younger looked. He saw a woman, extremely young, extremely pretty, extremely self-possessed, and even extremely chic, in her surrender of the red-and-white stripes of Viareggio for a bathing dress more modish, advance slowly toward the water. She was followed by an older lady, who had long since capitulated before the stoutness of middle life.
“Do you see?” cried the Elder. “Can anybody look like that and be respectable?”
“Of course,” laughed the Younger. “Why in the world haven’t you guessed?”
“Who, pray?” the Elder demanded.
“Why, who but an American?”
“O-o-o! I never thought of that.” And in the light of a new hypothesis he began to examine Dulcinea afresh. After a prolonged scrutiny he spoke again: “What do you make of the old one then, on your theory?”
“Why, who should she be but the girl’s mother?”
“Do mothers let their daughters go like that—even in America?”
“Like what? Her mother seems to be going farther than she.”
“Ah, yes; you haven’t seen,” rejoined the other. “But I don’t believe it,” he burst out. “How do you know?”