“Let’s go down to the edge, kiddo.”

Mr. Arnheim helped Miss Sternberger plow daintily through the sand.

“If I get sand in my shoes I’ll blame you, Mr. Arnheim.”

“Little slippers like yours can’t hold much.”

She giggled.

They seated themselves like small dunes on the white expanse of beach; he drew his knees up under his chin and nursed them.

In the eery light they might have been a fay and a faun in evening dress.

“Well,” said Mr. Arnheim, exhaling loudly, “this is something like it.”

“Ain’t that a grand moon, though, Mr. Arnheim?”

“The moon ’ain’t got a show when you’re round, little one.”

“I’ll bet you say that to every girl you meet.”

“Nix I do; but I know when a girl looks good to me.”

“I wish I knew if you was jollyin’ me or not.”

He tossed his cigar into the surf that curled at their very feet, leaving a rim of foam and scum.  The red end died with a fizz.  Then he turned his dark eyes full upon her with a steady focus.

“If you knew me better you’d know that I ain’t that sort of a fellow.  When I say a thing I mean it.”

His hand lay outstretched; she poured rivulets of white sand between the fingers.  They watched the little mounds of sand which she patted into shape.

“I’ll bet you’re a New York girl.”

“Why?”

“I can tell them every time—­style and all.”

“I’ll bet you’re a New York fellow, too.”

“Little New York is good enough for me.  I’ve been over in Paris four months, now, and, believe me, it looked good yesterday to see the old girlie holdin’ her lamp over the harbor.”

Miss Sternberger ran her hand over the smooth sheen of her dress; her gown was chaste, even stern, in its simplicity—­the expensive simplicity that is artful rather than artless.

“That’s a neat little model you’re wearin’.”

“Aw, Mr. Arnheim, what do you know about clothes?”

Mr. Arnheim threw back his head and laughed long and loud.  “What do I know about clothes?  I only been in the biz for eight years.  What I don’t know about ladies’ wear ain’t in the dictionary.”

“Well,” said Miss Sternberger, “that’s so; I did hear you was in the business.”

“I’m in the importin’ line, I am.  Why, girl, I’ve put through every fad that’s taken hold in the last five years—­brought them over myself, too, I’ve dressed Broadway and Fifth Avenue in everything from rainy-day to harem skirts.”

“Honest?”

“Sure!  I’ve imported more good sellers than any dealer in New York.  I got a new model now passin’ customs that’s to be a bigger hit than the sheath was.  Say, when I brought over the hobble every house on the Avenue laughed in my face; and when I finally dumped a consignment on to one of them, the firm was scared stiff and wanted to countermand; but I had ’em and they couldn’t jump me.”