When they were well away from the booths and bath-houses, Mr. King saw in the distance two ladies. There was no mistaking one of them--the easy carriage, the grace of movement. No such figure had been afield all day. The artist was quick to see that. Presently they came up with them, and found them seated on a bench, looking off upon Brigantine Island, a low sand dune with some houses and a few trees against the sky, the most pleasing object in view. Mrs. Benson did not conceal the pleasure she felt in seeing Mr. King again, and was delighted to know his friend; and, to say the truth, Miss Irene gave him a very cordial greeting. “I'm 'most tired to death,” said Mrs. Benson, when they were all seated. “But this air does me good. Don't you like Atlantic City?” “I like it better than I did at first.” If the remark was intended for Irene, she paid no attention to it, being absorbed in explaining to Mr. Forbes why she preferred the deserted end of the promenade. “It's a place that grows on you. I guess it's grown the wrong way on Irene and father; but I like the air--after the South. They say we ought to see it in August, when all Philadelphia is here.” “I should think it might be very lively.” “Yes; but the promiscuous bathing. I don't think I should like that. We are not brought up to that sort of thing in Ohio.” “No? Ohio is more like France, I suppose?” “Like France!” exclaimed the old lady, looking at him in amazement--“like France! Why, France is the wickedest place in the world.” “No doubt it is, Mrs. Benson. But at the sea resorts the sexes bathe separately.” “Well, now! I suppose they have to there.” “Yes; the older nations grow, the more self-conscious they become.” “I don't believe, for all you say, Mr. King, the French have any more conscience than we have.” “Nor do I, Mrs. Benson. I was only trying to say that they pay more attention to appearances.” “Well, I was brought up to think it's one thing to appear, and another thing to be,” said Mrs. Benson, as dismissing the subject. “So your friend's an artist? Does he paint? Does he take portraits? There was an artist at Cyrusville last winter who painted portraits, but Irene wouldn't let him do hers. I'm glad we've met Mr. Forbes. I've always wanted to have--” “Oh, mother,” exclaimed Irene, who always appeared to keep one ear for her mother's conversation, “I was just saying to Mr. Forbes that he ought to see the art exhibitions down at the other end of the promenade, and the pictures of the people who come here in August. Are you rested?” The party moved along, and Mr. King, by a movement that seemed to him more natural than it did to Mr. Forbes, walked with Irene, and the two fell to talking about the last spring's trip in the South.