Papa to take us all down to Atlantic City for a couple of days.”
“Wonderful!” cried Gissing. “Do you know, I've never been to the seashore.”
“Don't worry,” she replied. “I won't let you see much of the ocean. We'll go to the Traymore, and spend the whole time dancing in the Submarine Grill.”
“But I must be back in time for the service on Sunday,” he said.
“We're going to leave first thing in the morning. We'll go in the car, and I'll drive. Will you sit with me in the front seat?”
“Watch me!” replied Gissing gallantly.
“Come on then, or you'll be late for dinner. I'll race you home!” And she was off like a flash.
But in spite of Miss Airedale's threat, at Atlantic City they both fell into a kind of dreamy reverie. The wine-like tingle of that salty air was a quiet drug. The apparently inexhaustible sunshine was sharpened with a faint sting of coming autumn. Gissing suddenly remembered that it was ages since he had simply let his mind run slack and allowed life to go by unstudied.
