delicate color. It was a triumph of women--the whole glittering, moving
bouquet of stripes and patterns and tints that wandered slowly from one
striped parasol-mushroom to the next--the men, in their bathing suits or
white flannels seemed as unimportant if necessary furniture as slaves in
an Eastern court. The women dominated, from the jingle of the bags in the
hands of the dowagers and the faint, protesting creak of their corsets as
they picked their way as delicately as fat, gorgeous macaws across the
sand, to the sound of their daughters' voices, musical as a pigeon-loft,
as they chattered catchwords at each other and their partners, or
occasionally, very occasionally, dipped in for a three-minute swim.
Moreover, and supremely, it was a triumph of ritual, and such ritual
as reminded Oliver a little of the curious, unanimous and apparently
meaningless movements of a colony of penguins, for the entire assemblage
had arrived around, twelve o'clock and by a quarter past one not one of
them would be left. That was law as unwritten and unbreakable as that law
which governs the migratory habits of wild geese. And within that little
more than an hour possibly one-third of them would go as far as wetting
their hands in the water--all the rest had come for the single reason of
seeing and being seen. It was all extremely American and, on the whole,
rather superb, Oliver thought as he and Peter moved over nearer to the
parasol that sheltered Elinor and Ted.

"I wish it was Egypt," said Peter languidly. "Any more peppermints left,
El? No--well, Ted never could restrain himself when it came to food. I wish
it was Egypt," he repeated, making Elinor's left foot a pillow for his
head.

"Well, it's hot enough," from Oliver, dozingly. "Ah--oo--it's _hot_!"

"I know, but just think," Peter chuckled. "Clothes," he explained