He was, as always, fascinated by the mammoth trays of bread, the enormous flood of sustenance produced as the result of his energy and ability. Each loaf was shut in a sanitary paper envelope; the popular superstition, sanitation, had contributed as much as anything to his marked success. He liked to picture himself as a great force, a granary on which the city depended for life; it pleased him to think of thousands of people, men, women and children, waiting for his loaves or perhaps suffering through the inability to buy them. August left a direction for a barrel of superlative flower to be sent to his cottage, and then with a curious feeling of expectancy he departed. He was unable to grasp the cause of his sudden impatience to be again at the sea. On the train, in the Pullman smoking compartment, his coat swinging on a hook beside him, the vague haste centered surprisingly about the person of Miss Beggs. At first he was annoyed by the reality and persistence of her image; then he slipped into an unquestioning consideration of her. Never had he seen a more healthy being, and that alone, he told himself, was sufficient to account for his interest. He liked marked physical well-being; particularly, he added, in women. A sick wife, for example, was the most futile thing imaginable; a wife should exist for the comfort and pleasure of her husband. What little Miss Beggs--her name, he now remembered from the checks made out for her, was Meta Beggs--had said was as vigorous as herself. He realized that she had a strong, even rebellious personality. That, in her, however, should not be encouraged--an engaging submission was the becoming attitude for her sex. He proceeded immediately into the ocean, puffing strenuously and gazing about. No women could be seen. They never had any regularity of habit, he complained silently. After dinner--a surfeit of tenderloin Bordelaise--he walked up the short incline to the boardwalk, where on one of the benches overlooking the sparkling water he saw a slight familiar figure. It was Miss Beggs. Her eyes dwelt on him momentarily and then returned to the horizon. “You are a great deal alone,” he commented on the far end of the bench. “It's because I choose to be,” she answered sharply. An expression of displeasure was audible in his reply, “You should have no trouble.” “I ought to explain,” she continued, her slim hands clasped on shapely knees; “I mean that I can't get what I want.” “So you prefer nothing?” She nodded. “That's different,” August Turnbull declared. “Anybody could see you're particular. Still, it's strange you haven't met--well, one that suited you.” “What good would it do me--a school-teacher, and now a companion!” “You might be admired for those very things.” “Yes, by old ladies, male and female. Not men. There's just one attraction for them.” “Well----” She turned now and faced him with a suppressed bitter energy. “Clothes,” she said.