The three big automobiles had deserted the city streets, and were spinning swiftly along the hard dirt road. Suddenly they swerved and began climbing a slope.
“Our home is quite a distance from the town,” Miss Lydecker remarked, as the machines glided between high iron gates and came to a stop before a big white house. “But it makes it all the more enjoyable.”
Klein helped her out of the motor car. The others, laughing and chattering, hurried indoors. Miss Lydecker motioned him to the far end of the long porch.
“Look!” She stretched out a hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? I often sit here for hours.”
Far below, in the soft, white moonlight, spread the great Atlantic. The booming of the surf came faintly to Klein’s ears; the humid tang of salt air crept to his nostrils and misted against his cheeks.
“It is wonderful,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added: “This is my first real glimpse of the Atlantic.”
“You’re from inland, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. California claims me. I belong to that sect of egotists known as Native Sons. We are not supposed to hear, feel, or see, once we have stepped across our State line. Naturally, under these conditions, I am of the opinion that there is no ocean except the Pacific.”
The girl smiled and tossed her head. “Will you always hold that opinion, Mr. Klein?”
“I don’t know,” he reluctantly confessed. “I—I believe I am already weakening.”