"As long as you," he replied, not taking his eyes from her face.
"Sure. I don't have to go in to New York for a week or ten days yet. My season ain't on yet."
She leaned her head against the back of the divan. "All nice things must end," she said, with the 'cello note in her voice.
"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, with what might have been triple significance.
They finally walked toward the elevator, loath to part for the interim of dressing.
That evening they strolled together on the beach until the last lights of the hotel were blinking out. Then they stole into the semi-dark lobby like thieves--but soft-voiced, joyous thieves. A few straggling couples like themselves came in with the same sheepish but bright-eyed hesitancy. At the elevator Miss Blondheim and Mr. Epstein were lingering over good-nights.
The quartette rode up to their respective floors together--the girls regarding each other with shy, happy eyes; the men covering up their self-consciousness with sallies.
"Ain't you ashamed to keep such late hours, Miss Blondheim?" said Mr. Arnheim.
"I don't see no early-to-bed-early-to-rise medals on none of us," she said, diffidently.
"These thummer rethorts sure ain't no plathe for a minither's thon," said Mr. Epstein.
"Remember, Mr. Arnheim, whoever's up first wait in the leather chair opposite the elevator."
Her last glance, full of significance, was for Mr. Arnheim. The floor above he also left the elevator, the smile still on his lips.
Left alone, Mr. Epstein turned to Miss Blondheim.
"Good night, dearie," he whispered. "Thweet dreamth."
"Good night, Louie," she replied. "Same to you."
Mr. Arnheim awoke to a scudding rain; his ocean-ward window-sill dripping and a great patch of carpet beneath the window dark and soggy. Downstairs the lobby buzzed with restrained energies; a few venturesome ones in oils and turned-up collars paced the veranda without.
Mr. Arnheim, in his invariable soft collar and shadow-checked suit, skirted the edge of the crowd in matinal ill humor and deposited his room key at the desk. The clerk gave him in return a folded newspaper and his morning mail.
Mr. Arnheim's morning aspect was undeniable. He suggested too generous use of soap and bay rum, and his eyes had not lost the swollen heaviness that comes with too much or too little sleep. He yawned and seated himself in the heavy leather chair opposite the elevator.