Strangers and servants may do so, but the cottagers have withdrawn their support from the ocean.  Saltwater may be carried to the house and used without loss of caste, but bathing in the surf is vulgar.  A gentleman may go down and take a dip alone—­it had better be at an early hour—­and the ladies of the house may be heard to apologize for his eccentricity, as if his fondness for the water were abnormal and quite out of experience.  And the observer is obliged to admit that promiscuous bathing is vulgar, as it is plain enough to be seen when it becomes unfashionable.  It is charitable to think also that the cottagers have made it unfashionable because it is vulgar, and not because it is a cheap and refreshing pleasure accessible to everybody.

Nevertheless, Mr. King’s ideas of Newport were upset.  “It’s a little off color to walk much on the cliffs; you lose caste if you bathe in the surf.  What can you do?”

“Oh,” explained Miss Lamont, “you can make calls; go to teas and receptions and dinners; belong to the Casino, but not appear there much; and you must drive on the Ocean Road, and look as English as you can.  Didn’t you notice that Redfern has an establishment on the Avenue?  Well, the London girls wear what Redfern tells them to wear-much to the improvement of their appearance—­and so it has become possible for a New-Yorker to become partially English without sacrificing her native taste.”

Before lunch Mrs. Bartlett Glow called on the Bensons, and invited them to a five-o’clock tea, and Miss Lamont, who happened to be in the parlor, was included in the invitation.  Mrs. Glow was as gracious as possible, and especially attentive to the old lady, who purred with pleasure, and beamed and expanded into familiarity under the encouragement of the woman of the world.  In less than ten minutes Mrs. Glow had learned the chief points in the family history, the state of health and habits of pa (Mr. Benson), and all about Cyrusville and its wonderful growth.  In all this Mrs. Glow manifested a deep interest, and learned, by observing out of the corner of her eye, that Irene was in an agony of apprehension, which she tried to conceal under an increasing coolness of civility.  “A nice lady,” was Mrs. Benson’s comment when Mrs. Glow had taken herself away with her charmingly-scented air of frank cordiality—­“a real nice lady.  She seemed just like our, folks.”

Irene heaved a deep sigh.  “I suppose we shall have to go.”

“Have to go, child?  I should think you’d like to go.  I never saw such a girl—­never.  Pa and me are just studying all the time to please you, and it seems as if—­” And the old lady’s voice broke down.

“Why, mother dear”—­and the girl, with tears in her eyes, leaned over her and kissed her fondly, and stroked her hair—­“you are just as good and sweet as you can be; and don’t mind me; you know I get in moods sometimes.”

The old lady pulled her down and kissed her, and looked in her face with beseeching eyes.