“And this Mrs. Benson?”

“No, I’m not going down there to see Mrs. Benson.”

Expectancy was the word when our travelers stepped out of the car at Cape May station.  Except for some people who seemed to have business there, they were the only passengers.  It was the ninth of June.  Everything was ready—­the sea, the sky, the delicious air, the long line of gray-colored coast, the omnibuses, the array of hotel tooters.  As they stood waiting in irresolution a grave man of middle age and a disinterested manner sauntered up to the travelers, and slipped into friendly relations with them.  It was impossible not to incline to a person so obliging and well stocked with local information.  Yes, there were several good hotels open.  It didn’t make much difference; there was one near at hand, not pretentious, but probably as comfortable as any.  People liked the table; last summer used to come there from other hotels to get a meal.  He was going that way, and would walk along with them.  He did, and conversed most interestingly on the way.  Our travelers felicitated themselves upon falling into such good hands, but when they reached the hotel designated it had such a gloomy and in fact boardinghouse air that they hesitated, and thought they would like to walk on a little farther and see the town before settling.  And their friend appeared to feel rather grieved about it, not for himself, but for them.  He had moreover, the expression of a fisherman who has lost a fish after he supposed it was securely hooked.  But our young friends had been angled for in a good many waters, and they told the landlord, for it was the landlord, that while they had no doubt his was the best hotel in the place, they would like to look at some not so good.  The one that attracted them, though they could not see in what the attraction lay, was a tall building gay with fresh paint in many colors, some pretty window balconies, and a portico supported by high striped columns that rose to the fourth story.  They were fond of color, and were taken by six little geraniums planted in a circle amid the sand in front of the house, which were waiting for the season to open before they began to grow.  With hesitation they stepped upon the newly varnished piazza and the newly varnished office floor, for every step left a footprint.  The chairs, disposed in a long line on the piazza, waiting for guests, were also varnished, as the artist discovered when he sat in one of them and was held fast.  It was all fresh and delightful.  The landlord and the clerks had smiles as wide as the open doors; the waiters exhibited in their eagerness a good imitation of unselfish service.