Chapman to dinner. He found
that gentleman next morning on the beach, taking snap-shots at the
bathers.
"This sort of thing goes," Chapman said, "although these people are just
plain tourists. I label them 'the beautiful Miss Brown,' or 'the famous
Miss Jones,' and the average reader swallows it, to say nothing of the
fact that it makes the paper look well. The swells won't go in with the
common herd, and want the ocean fenced in too, as it were. There are
some of them over there in their carriages, taking a languid interest in
the scene because they've nothing better to do. But they'd no more think
of getting out and sitting on this balcony, as they do at Narragansett,
than they'd ride in a street-car. Want to go up to the Casino and see
the stage go off? That's one of the sights."
Andrew had spent a half-hour the evening before gazing at the graceful
brown building which had long been a part of his dreams. He welcomed the
prospect of seeing a phase of its brilliant life.
They reached the Casino a few minutes before the coach started. A large
round-shouldered man, with face and frame of phlegmatic mould, occupied
the seat and swung his whip with a bored and absent air.
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