the bonnes in unpicturesque costumes, and all the men were slouchy and stolid, how could any one tell what an effect of gayety and enjoyment there might be when there were thousands of such people, and the sea was full of bathers, and the flags were flying, and the bands were tooting, and all the theatres were opened, and acrobats and spangled women and painted red-men offered those attractions which, like government, are for the good of the greatest number?  What will you have?  Shall vulgarity be left just vulgar, and have no apotheosis and glorification?  This is very fine of its kind, and a resort for the million.  The million come here to enjoy themselves.  Would you have an art-gallery here, and high-priced New York and Paris shops lining the way?

“Look at the town,” exclaimed the artist, “and see what money can do, and satisfy the average taste without the least aid from art.  It’s just wonderful.  I’ve tramped round the place, and, taking out a cottage or two, there isn’t a picturesque or pleasing view anywhere.  I tell you people know what they want, and enjoy it when they get it.”

“You needn’t get excited about it,” said Mr. King.  “Nobody said it wasn’t commonplace, and glaringly vulgar if you like, and if you like to consider it representative of a certain stage in national culture, I hope it is not necessary to remind you that the United States can beat any other people in any direction they choose to expand themselves.  You’ll own it when you’ve seen watering-places enough.”

After this defense of the place, Mr. King owned it might be difficult for Mr. Forbes to find anything picturesque to sketch.  What figures, to be sure!  As if people were obliged to be shapely or picturesque for the sake of a wandering artist!  “I could do a tree,” growled Mr. Forbes, “or a pile of boards; but these shanties!”

When they were well away from the booths and bath-houses, Mr. King saw in the distance two ladies.  There was no mistaking one of them—­the easy carriage, the grace of movement.  No such figure had been afield all day.  The artist was quick to see that.  Presently they came up with them, and found them seated on a bench, looking off upon Brigantine Island, a low sand dune with some houses and a few trees against the sky, the most pleasing object in view.

Mrs. Benson did not conceal the pleasure she felt in seeing Mr. King again, and was delighted to know his friend; and, to say the truth, Miss Irene gave him a very cordial greeting.

“I’m ’most tired to death,” said Mrs. Benson, when they were all seated.  “But this air does me good.  Don’t you like Atlantic City?”

“I like it better than I did at first.”  If the remark was intended for Irene, she paid no attention to it, being absorbed in explaining to Mr. Forbes why she preferred the deserted end of the promenade.

“It’s a place that grows on you.  I guess it’s grown the wrong way on Irene and father; but I like the air—­after the South.  They say we ought to see it in August, when all Philadelphia is here.”