THERE is one long road at Cinerea Lake, always dusty, with a sidewalk of planks. The hotel, with the appendant cottages, is on the one side, and a few old farmhouses, now boarding-houses, with a dozen little wooden shops, are on the other. Most of the shops sell novels, sweetmeats, embroidery work, and newspapers. There were not many men at Cinerea. It is not customary in America for men to join their wives and children on pleasure excursions. What few men there were seemed oppressed by the novelty of the position, and sat in chairs upon the piazza, with their feet upon the railing. They seldom ventured farther during the day. There was a stock telegraph instrument in the hall of the hotel, and an enterprising New York broker had an office in an ante-room. Vane noticed that every one of these gentlemen left their foot-rests on the verandah shortly after breakfast, and, following them to the nearest store, he learned that this activity was caused by a desire to purchase the evening papers of the day before, which arrived, as a written placard informed him, at 9.45 A.M. Vane himself asked for a paper, but got no answer from the young woman behind the counter, while a friend who was sitting with her, working, and eating pieces of chocolate from a paper bag upon her lap, stopped her embroidery a moment to stare at him rudely. Suddenly it dawned upon Vane that he had seen the faces of these two ladies at his hotel. They were sitting on a little piazza in front of the shop, behind a small counter, but the shop itself seemed to be a sort of club-room for the ladies of the place, and these were evidently guests. Vane apologized for his error with some inward amusement, but his speech was rewarded with a still blanker stare from the young woman with the chocolate. So far, this "popular summer resort" promised more errors than entertainment. Vane had certainly never felt so lonely before as among this gay company. Work gives its own companionship, but idleness is gregarious. The place was full of girls of all styles of behavior and prettiness. Some were playing tennis, others making up companies for drives, others starting off for long walks. Vane had pictured the type of American girlhood as something fragile and delicate, but these had healthy faces and lithe young figures robed in flannel and untrammelled by the dressmakers' art. They were bright, quick with their eyes, but far from ethereal. Vane himself went to walk, and, after following the road for a mile or so, entered a woody path, which, as a finger-post assured him, led to Diana's baths.