“I should think it might be very lively.”

“Yes; but the promiscuous bathing.  I don’t think I should like that.  We are not brought up to that sort of thing in Ohio.”

“No?  Ohio is more like France, I suppose?”

“Like France!” exclaimed the old lady, looking at him in amazement—­“like France!  Why, France is the wickedest place in the world.”

“No doubt it is, Mrs. Benson.  But at the sea resorts the sexes bathe separately.”

“Well, now!  I suppose they have to there.”

“Yes; the older nations grow, the more self-conscious they become.”

“I don’t believe, for all you say, Mr. King, the French have any more conscience than we have.”

“Nor do I, Mrs. Benson.  I was only trying to say that they pay more attention to appearances.”

“Well, I was brought up to think it’s one thing to appear, and another thing to be,” said Mrs. Benson, as dismissing the subject.  “So your friend’s an artist?  Does he paint?  Does he take portraits?  There was an artist at Cyrusville last winter who painted portraits, but Irene wouldn’t let him do hers.  I’m glad we’ve met Mr. Forbes.  I’ve always wanted to have—­”

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Irene, who always appeared to keep one ear for her mother’s conversation, “I was just saying to Mr. Forbes that he ought to see the art exhibitions down at the other end of the promenade, and the pictures of the people who come here in August.  Are you rested?”

The party moved along, and Mr. King, by a movement that seemed to him more natural than it did to Mr. Forbes, walked with Irene, and the two fell to talking about the last spring’s trip in the South.

“Yes, we enjoyed the exhibition, but I am not sure but I should have enjoyed New Orleans more without the exhibition.  That took so much time.  There is nothing so wearisome as an exhibition.  But New Orleans was charming.  I don’t know why, for it’s the flattest, dirtiest, dampest city in the world; but it is charming.  Perhaps it’s the people, or the Frenchiness of it, or the tumble-down, picturesque old creole quarter, or the roses; I didn’t suppose there were in the world so many roses; the town was just wreathed and smothered with them.  And you did not see it?”

“No; I have been to exhibitions, and I thought I should prefer to take New Orleans by itself some other time.  You found the people hospitable?”

“Well, they were not simply hospitable; they were that, to be sure, for father had letters to some of the leading men; but it was the general air of friendliness and good-nature everywhere, of agreeableness—­it went along with the roses and the easy-going life.  You didn’t feel all the time on a strain.  I don’t suppose they are any better than our people, and I’ve no doubt I should miss a good deal there after a while—­a certain tonic and purpose in life.  But, do you know, it is pleasant sometimes to be with people who haven’t so many corners as our people have.  But you went south from Fortress Monroe?”