The two swam down the shore, a long way, not troubled by the chill of the water; they ran hand in hand on the beach, and as they went back to the bath-house, Nina said, “Come have supper with me, Bunny; I’m tired of home,” So Bunny slipped into his clothes, and she drove him back to her home, and while she changed he sat in the car and got up his next lesson in nineteenth century English poetry. The poet called attention to a chain of natural phenomena: The sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea! What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? They drove to a cafeteria, an invention where California fish and California fruits and California salads are spread out before the eyes in such profusion as to trouble a nineteen year old Juno already struggling to “reduce.” There was nothing so safe as celery, said Nina, it took both space and time; while she munched, they sat by the window, and watched the sun set over the purple ocean, and the slow fog steal in from the sea. Then they got into the car, and without saying a word she drove out of town and down the coast highway; one of her hands was in Bunny’s, and he, searching the caverns of his memory, remembered having heard Eunice mention that Nina had had a desperate affair with Barney Lee, who had enlisted a year ago, and was now in France. They stopped at a lonely place, and there was a rug in the car, and pretty soon they were sitting by the noisy surf, and Nina was snuggled close to Bunny and whispering, “Do you care for me the least little bit?” And when he answered that he did, she said, “Then why don’t you pet me?” And when he began to oblige her, he found his lips held in one of those long slow kisses which are sure-fire hits on the silver screen, but which the censors cut to a footage varying according to geography—00 in Japan up to 8,000 in Algeria and the Argentine. It was evident that this nineteen year old Juno was his to do what he pleased with, there and then; and Bunny’s head had begun to swim in the familiar alarming way. He had never got the ache of Eunice out of his soul, and here at last was deliverance! But he hesitated, because he had sworn to himself that he would not get in for this again. Also from some of the English poets he had begun to hear about a different kind of love. He knew that he didn’t really love Nina Goodrich, she was all but a stranger to him; so he hesitated, and his kisses diminished in ardor, until she whispered, “What’s the matter, Bunny?” He was rattled, but a sudden inspiration came to him. “Nina,” he said, “it doesn’t seem quite fair.” “Why not?” “To Barney.” He felt her wince as she lay in his arms. “But Barney is gone, dear.” “I know; but he’ll come back.” “Yes, but that’s so far off; and I guess he’s got a girl in France by now.”