“But don’t worry, my dearest girl!” said Lionel. “I can’t help it,” said Frances. “It’s such a waste. We could just as well take a train. Or anyway the taxi needn’t wait. We could always find another.” They were on the veranda of a hotel at Long Beach, on a Sunday afternoon, part of the crowd that Lionel liked so much. “We might not,” he said. “There’s such a mob here. Better take no chances. As for the train--no, thanks! Now, do be a nice kid, and not scold me. Don’t you want me to have _any_ pleasures at all?” “That’s not the question. Oh, Lionel, we could have just as nice a time without being so dreadfully wasteful. It’s ... why, Lionel, it’s _mad_!” She had a genuine dislike for extravagance and frivolity. Old traditions from remote Defoe ancestors urged her always toward prudence and restraint. She really couldn’t enter into Lionel’s mood, couldn’t for a moment be careless, and would never pretend to be. She wanted dignity and purpose; she was fond enough of fun, but it wasn’t his kind. She could not enjoy watching other people spend money. Lionel didn’t care to swim, or to walk; he was quite happy to sit on a crowded veranda, drinking cocktails and chaffing his serious girl. He was happy now, in watching the streams of people going in and out of the hotel, over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-fed, over-stimulated. But there was nothing here for Frankie. All this life that Lionel had pulled her into distressed her. He had urged her to give up her business course, and instead they went out somewhere every evening. Miss Eppendorfer was always ready to let her go, as long as she wasn’t left alone. She absolutely approved of Lionel. From her point of view, he was the ideal lover, attractive and lavish. He was continually bringing presents to Frankie, flowers, chocolates and books. He refused to believe that she was not very fond of sweets, and was deaf to her hints that her taste in reading was not his. She felt like a prig, a bluestocking, with her perpetual advice and rebuke. Her serious soul was in revolt against this waste of time; often when they were at some blatant cabaret, she would be longing for her quiet room and a good book. She was really weary of this ceaseless pleasure-hunt, disgusted, and yet hadn’t the heart to deny his pleasures to Lionel. He never read a book, and was no more capable or desirous of quiet than a small boy. She took it for granted that he was more or less a rich man, and that as his wife she would be obliged to endure a good deal of this sort of existence. She did ask him, though, if he wouldn’t just as soon live out of town, and he said, whatever she liked. So she was able to picture herself in one of those charming suburban houses on the Sound, with a fine garden, and horses, and dogs. And undoubtedly children; lovely, happy children.