"I beg your pardon," he said. "Is this a private raft?"
The young lady, who had had plenty of time since the splash to
arrange her countenance, looked at him with a blank coldness, and then
suddenly smiled.
"I thought it was a private world," she replied.
"It's certainly a very agreeable one," said Ben, climbing on the raft.
"And what I like particularly about it is the fact that no one is
alive but you and me. Newport appears to be a city of the dead."
"It always was," she answered, contemptuously.
"Oh, come. Not an hour ago you were dancing in blue and green and a
silver turban at a party over there," and he waved his hand in the
direction from which he had come.
"Did you think it was a good ball?"
"I enjoyed it," he answered, truthfully.
Her face fell. "How very disappointing," she said. "I didn't see you
there."
"Disappointing that you did not see me there?"
"No," she replied, and then, less positively; "No; I meant it was
disappointing that you were the kind of man who went to parties--and
enjoyed them."
"It would be silly to go if you didn't enjoy them," he returned,
lightly.
She turned to him very seriously. "You're right," she said; "it is
silly--very silly, and it's just what I do. I consider parties like
that the lowest, emptiest form of human entertainment. They're dull;
they're expensive; they keep you from doing intelligent things,
like studying; they keep you from doing simple, healthy things, like
sleeping and exercising; they make you artificial; they make you civil
to people you despise--they make women, at least, for we must have
partners--"
"But why do you go, then?"
She was silent, and they looked straight and long at each other.
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