"Charles, you will go to Nahant for a week,—won't you?"
"What! now?"
"In a day or two."
"Too cold, Sister Marcia; too late, altogether."
"But you were unwilling to go early in the season."
"Too early is as bad as too late; it is chilly there till the company comes. No billiards, no hops, no pwetty girls, no sailing, no wides on the beach, no pwomenades on the moonlight side of the piazza. No, my deah, Nahant is stupid till the curwent sets that way."
"Southern visitors warm the coast like the Gulf Stream, I suppose," said Greenleaf.
"Pwecisely so,"—then, after the idea had reached his brain, adding,
"Vewy good, Mr. Gweenleaf! Vewy good!"
The soirée ended as all seasons of pleasure must, and without the dance on which Charles had set his heart. The friends walked home together. Greenleaf was rather silent, but Easelmann at last made him talk.
"What do you think of the beauty, now?" the elder asked.