“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”

“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.

“Ah, the name. He has a name,” Lucy thought. “One wouldn’t simply be a handsome young man who took liberties to kiss a complete stranger; he must of course have a name: George. Her Dear George.”

For a better definition, Lucy considered George at length. He was not only a handsome young man who sat contentedly, appearing quite untouched as though it were perfectly natural to go about seducing another’s affections without speaking a word. He was genuinely the most desirable man she had ever set eyes upon in her life.

The kiss — the very kiss — they shared just moments ago thrilled Lucy so that her toes still tingled. She knew she had to restrain her desire, but it was only heightened.

“What I mean,” the older man continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”

The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”

Lucy wriggled her toes at the very thought of lying in the same bed in which George had slept.

“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.

“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you,” replied Miss Bartlett.

“You see, we don’t like to take — ” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.

“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, “George, persuade them!”

“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say … ”

Though calm on the outside, George did not look at Lucy for fear that his desires would be laid upon the table for all to inspect. His hands moistened at the thought of touching her bare breasts, separated only by the thin cloth of her dress. He had been so close to claiming his prize, so close to making her his own. His fingers hungered at the thought of finding the tips of her bare breasts, the very act which had been denied.

George’s heart began to pound within the confines of his chest. The young woman had bedazzled him like no other. Her beauty had allured him, compelled him to act upon impulse. He wanted her. The touch of her soft lips against his, to feel her, to know her quiet sighs, to see her blissful expression.

He turned toward the window, stealing a lingering glance at Lucy’s voluptuous bosom. He would have her, but if he did not regain his inner composure this instant, their secret was sure to be discovered.

“Yes,” George said, “we insist.”

Still, he did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful.