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"Rosemere" is the name of the joint. "Me for Quehassett!" says I, dashin' for the elevator. But, say, I needn't have lost my breath. Parts of Long Island you can get to every half-hour or so; but Quehassett ain't one of 'em. Huntin' it up on the railroad map, I discovers that it's 'way out to the deuce and gone on the north shore, and the earliest start I can get is the four o'clock local.
I'd overlooked pullin' down the front shades to the station, though, and the next thing I knew the sun was hittin' me square in the face. I wanders around Quehassett until a Dago opens up a little fruitstand. He sold me some bananas and a couple of muskmelons for breakfast, and points out which road leads to Rosemere.
"They're our neighbors here at Rosemere, you know. They have guests from town, and my folks are aboard. By Jove! Here's my chance to surprise 'em. I say, would you mind paddling around and giving me a shove off?" But I stands gawpin' out at the yacht. "The Morley Beckhams?" says I. "Yes, yes!" says he. "But hurry, please. I want to catch them."
The next morning brought invitations for private theatricals at the house of a distinguished foreign embassy. The spacious mansion in St. James' Court received the grandees of every land. It was a high honor to enter "Rosemere Place." Mrs. She walked on air, as it were, and could talk of nothing else but the elegance and grandeur in prospect. "I have accepted Mr. Tracy as escort, mamma," said Mrs.
It's down on the shore about a mile and a half, and I strolls along, eatin' fruit and enjoyin' the early mornin' air. Some joint Rosemere turns out to be, acres of lawn, and rows of striped awnin's at the windows.
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