He was relieved that she had thrown off the silence.
"Ain't mad any more, are you, Marylin?"
"No, Getaway--not mad."
"Mustn't get fussy that way with me, Marylin. It scares me off. I've had
something to show you all day, but you keep scaring me off."
"What is it?" she said, tiptoe.
His mouth drew up to an oblique. "You know."
"No, I don't."
"Maybe I'll tell you and maybe I won't," he cried, scooping up a handful
of sand and spraying her. "What'll you give me if I tell?"
"Why--nothing."
"Want to know?"
But at the narrowing something in his eyes she sidestepped him, stooping
down at the door of her bathhouse for a last scoop of sand at him.
"No," she cried, her hair blown like spray and the same breeze carrying
her laughter, guiltless of mood, out to sea.
On the way home, though, for the merest second, there recurred the
puzzling quirk in her thoughtlessness.
In the crush of the electric train, packed tightly into the heart of
the most yammering and petulant crowd in the world--home-going pleasure
seekers--a youth rose to give her his seat.
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