best effort. Maybe if they weren't too busy they'd spend a little time with him. It would be his treat. He had plenty of money.
Bessie said Mr. Blundon was working in the daytime, but that she had nothing to do. He was writing a book, she explained impressively.
"Ah," breathed Mr. Winnery, impressed. "A book. What kind of a book?"
"I don't know," said Bessie. "It's just a book."
The band stopped playing and began putting its brass instruments to bed in green baize. Bessie thought it was time for them all to go home and awakened Mr. Blundon. Together the three of them walked to the end of the pier. She noticed that Mr. Blundon was a little unsteady. On the promenade Mr. Winnery bade them a polite good-night.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "we might meet in the morning. Say ten o'clock."
Mr. Blundon offered no objections. He did not even seem to hear.
"All right," said Bessie.
Bessie liked the old gentleman. He was, she told herself, one of her sort, out for a good time. All the black clothes and Homburg hats and black umbrellas in the world could not dampen the twinkle in his blue eyes or the healthy pink in his cheeks. "When he was young," she speculated, "he must have been a wild 'un." She was growing a little bored with Mr. Blundon's quiet way of living. Bessie was one who could not do without her fun.
