the Rip-Raps.  Was it the thought that the day was over, and that underneath all chaff and hilarity there was the question of settling in life to be met some time, which subdued a little the high spirits, and gave an air of protection and of tenderness to a couple here and there?  Consciously, perhaps, this entered into the thought of nobody; but still the old story will go on, and perhaps all the more rapidly under a mask of raillery and merriment.

There was great bustling about, hunting up wraps and lost parasols and mislaid gloves, and a chorus of agreement on the delight of the day, upon going ashore, and Mrs. Cortlandt, who looked the youngest and most animated of the flock, was quite overwhelmed with thanks and congratulations upon the success of her excursion.

“Yes, it was perfect; you’ve given us all a great deal of pleasure, Mrs. Cortlandt,” Mr. King was saying, as he stood beside her, watching the exodus.

Perhaps Mrs. Cortlandt fancied his eyes were following a particular figure, for she responded, “And how did you like her?”

“Like her—­Miss Benson?  Why, I didn’t see much of her.  I thought she was very intelligent—­seemed very much interested when Lieutenant Green was explaining to her what made the drydock dry—­but they were all that.  Did you say her eyes were gray?  I couldn’t make out if they were not rather blue after all—­large, changeable sort of eyes, long lashes; eyes that look at you seriously and steadily, without the least bit of coquetry or worldliness; eyes expressing simplicity and interest in what you are saying—­not in you, but in what you are saying.  So few women know how to listen; most women appear to be thinking of themselves and the effect they are producing.”

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed.  “Ah; I see.  And a little ‘sadness’ in them, wasn’t there?  Those are the most dangerous eyes.  The sort that follow you, that you see in the dark at night after the gas is turned off.”

“I haven’t the faculty of seeing things in the dark, Mrs. Cortlandt.  Oh, there’s the mother!” And the shrill voice of Mrs. Benson was heard, “We was getting uneasy about you.  Pa says a storm’s coming, and that you’d be as sick as sick.”

The weather was changing.  But that evening the spacious hotel, luxurious, perfectly warmed, and well lighted, crowded with an agreeable if not a brilliant company—­for Mr. King noted the fact that none of the gentlemen dressed for dinner—­seemed all the more pleasant for the contrast with the weather outside.  Thus housed, it was pleasant to hear the waves dashing against the breakwater.  Just by chance, in the ballroom, Mr. King found himself seated by Mrs. Benson and a group of elderly ladies, who had the perfunctory air of liking the mild gayety of the place.  To one of them Mr. King was presented, Mrs. Stimpson—­a stout woman with a broad red face and fishy eyes, wearing an elaborate head-dress with purple flowers, and attired as if she were expecting to take a prize.  Mrs. Stimpson was loftily condescending, and asked Mr. King if this was his first visit.  She’d been coming here years and years; never could get through the spring without a few weeks at the Hygeia.  Mr. King saw a good many people at this hotel who seemed to regard it as a home.