Morice and his wife wandered off to the boardwalk, and he, August, must have fallen asleep, for he suddenly sat up with a sensation of strangeness and dizzy vision. He rose and shook it off. It was still light, and he could see Bernard at his automobile, parked before the latter's cottage. The younger man caught sight of August at the same moment and called: “We are going to a cafe with the Rathes; will you come?” He was still slightly confused, his head full, and the ride, the gayety of the crowd, he thought, would do him good. “Be over for you,” the other added; and later he was crowded into a rear seat between Louise, his daughter, and Caroline Rathe. Louise was wearing the necklace of platinum and diamonds Bernard Foster had given her last Christmas. It was, August admitted to himself, a splendid present, and must have cost eighteen or twenty thousand dollars. The Government had made platinum almost prohibitive. In things of this kind--the adornment of his wife, of, really, himself, the extension of his pride--Bernard was extremely generous. It was in the small affairs such as gasoline that he was prudent. Both Caroline Rathe and Louise were handsome women handsomely dressed; he was seated in a nest of soft tulle and ruffled embroidery, of pliant swaying bodies. Their satin-shod feet had high sharp insteps in films of black lace and their fingers glittered with prismatic stones. Bernard was in front with the chauffeur, and Frederick Rathe occupied a small seat at the knees of the three others. He had not made his money, as had August and Bernard, but inherited it with a huge brewery. Frederick was younger than the other men too; but his manner was, if anything, curter. He said things about the present war that made even August Turnbull uneasy. He was an unusual youth, not devoted to sports and convivial pleasures--as any one might infer, viewing his heavy frame and wealth--but something of a reader. He quoted fragments from philosophical books about the will-to-power and the _Uebermensch_ that stuck like burrs in August Turnbull's memory, furnishing him with labels, backing, for many of his personally evolved convictions and experience. They were soon descending the steps to the anteroom of the café, where the men left their hats and sticks. As they entered the brilliantly lighted space beyond a captain hurried forward. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said servilely; “Mr. Turnbull----” He ushered them to a table by the rope of an open floor for dancing and removed a reserved card. There he stood attentively with a waiter at his shoulder. “What will you have?” Frederick Rathe asked generally. “For me nothing but beer. Not the filthy American stuff.” He turned to the servants. “If you still have some of the other. You understand?” “No beer for me!” Louise exclaimed. “Champagne,” the captain suggested.