"We thought maybe you were in the plot," said Mrs. McKisco. She was a shabby-eyed, pretty young woman with a disheartening intensity. "We don't know who’s in the plot and who isn't. One man my husband had been particularly nice to turned out to be a chief character--practically the assistant hero."
"The plot?" inquired Rosemary, half understanding. "Is there a plot?"
"My dear, we don't know," said Mrs. Abrams, with a convulsive, stout woman’s chuckle. "We're not in it. We're the gallery."
Mr. Dumphry, a tow-headed effeminate young man, remarked: "Mama Abrams is a plot in herself," and Campion shook his monocle at him, saying: "Now, Royal, don't be too ghastly for words." Rosemary looked at them all uncomfortably, wishing her mother had come down here with her. She did not like these people, especially in her immediate comparison of them with those who had interested her at the other end of the beach. Her mother's modest but compact social gift got them out of unwelcome situations swiftly and firmly. But Rosemary had been a celebrity for only six months, and sometimes the French manners of her early adolescence and the democratic manners of America, these latter superimposed, made a certain confusion and let her in for just such things.
Mr. McKisco, a scrawny, freckle-and-red man of thirty, did not find the topic of the "plot" amusing. He had been staring at the sea--now after a swift glance at his wife he turned to Rosemary and demanded aggressively:
"Been here long?"
"Only a day."
"Oh."
Evidently feeling that the subject had been thoroughly changed, he looked in turn at the others.
"Going to stay all summer?" asked Mrs. McKisco, innocently. "If you do you can watch the plot unfold."
"For God's sake, Violet, drop the subject!" exploded her husband. "Get a new joke, for God's sake!"
Mrs. McKisco swayed toward Mrs. Abrams and breathed audibly:
"He's nervous."
"The plot?" inquired Rosemary, half understanding. "Is there a plot?"
"My dear, we don't know," said Mrs. Abrams, with a convulsive, stout woman’s chuckle. "We're not in it. We're the gallery."
Mr. Dumphry, a tow-headed effeminate young man, remarked: "Mama Abrams is a plot in herself," and Campion shook his monocle at him, saying: "Now, Royal, don't be too ghastly for words." Rosemary looked at them all uncomfortably, wishing her mother had come down here with her. She did not like these people, especially in her immediate comparison of them with those who had interested her at the other end of the beach. Her mother's modest but compact social gift got them out of unwelcome situations swiftly and firmly. But Rosemary had been a celebrity for only six months, and sometimes the French manners of her early adolescence and the democratic manners of America, these latter superimposed, made a certain confusion and let her in for just such things.
Mr. McKisco, a scrawny, freckle-and-red man of thirty, did not find the topic of the "plot" amusing. He had been staring at the sea--now after a swift glance at his wife he turned to Rosemary and demanded aggressively:
"Been here long?"
"Only a day."
"Oh."
Evidently feeling that the subject had been thoroughly changed, he looked in turn at the others.
"Going to stay all summer?" asked Mrs. McKisco, innocently. "If you do you can watch the plot unfold."
"For God's sake, Violet, drop the subject!" exploded her husband. "Get a new joke, for God's sake!"
Mrs. McKisco swayed toward Mrs. Abrams and breathed audibly:
"He's nervous."
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