‘Very nice crowd here,’ Newman said quietly as she crossed the empty lobby at his side.

They stood before the registering desk and he put the valises down and rubbed his hands together to get the sweat off. His back was wet with it.

‘Some of them looked pretty young,’ she said hopefully. Through the white-curtained windows the backs of heads were showing from the porch.

He looked around at the silent lobby which smelled of the pines. To their left were three open French doors through which they could hear the tinkle of silverware. Now and then a waiter passed beyond the doorways, carrying clean dishes or tablecloths. How often he had sat here waiting, waiting desolately …

‘Setting up for lunch,’ he said with experience. She had let go of his arm and was leaning against the desk looking taller than usual, he thought, for she was stretching and standing on her toes with her back a little arched as she surveyed the lobby with comfortable appreciation.

‘I’d better let them know we’re here,’ he said, and touched a little bell that was on the desk.

They waited several moments, looking out toward the porch. Low conversational voices rose and died momentarily out there. He felt the embarrassment of being ignored, and turned to her.

‘Always find somebody interesting to talk to here. Nice lively crowd.’

‘You recognize any of them?’ She indicated the porch.

‘No, there’s always new people. But they don’t stand for any of this summer-hotel rowdyism.’ He talked with relish, enjoying the unique privilege of opening a little bit of the world to her.

‘I’d like to take a swim before lunch,’ she said, glancing at the suitcases to recall where her suit was.

‘You can swim all day if you want to …’

They heard the loud creak of the rocker on the porch, and looked toward the door as a man entered the lobby. He was the small old man who had been carving the wood. Mr Newman did not recall him from his previous stay. The old man crossed the lobby toward them, smiling tiredly with his head cocked to one side. As he walked he was wiping off the long blade of his knife and snapping it shut and knocking it against his palm as though it were a pipe.

Ignoring Gertrude altogether he stopped before Mr Newman. His head was bent forward a little. He had a thick head of white hair through which he ran his fingers now that the knife was settled in his pocket.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly and with a soft smile.

‘I’m Lawrence Newman, and this is Mrs Newman …’

The old man nodded to her saying, ‘How do you do,’ and closing his eyes, which opened again only when he was facing Mr Newman an instant later. The introduction did not seem to make much difference to him, for he stood smiling kindly at Mr Newman just as though they had not gotten beyond his initial ‘Yes, sir.’