The sand was firm, and

when we began to get clear of the traffic and the suntan crowd she let it out a little, to around fifty-five.

“It handles nicely,” she said.

“You’re a good driver.” I lit two cigarettes and handed her one.

“What do you do, Mr. Scarborough?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the beach ahead.

“This and that,” I said. “I sell things. Or try to. Real estate was the last.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” she said. “But I take it you’re not doing anything at the moment?”

“That’s right. I’m thinking of going to Arabia with a construction outfit. That’s one reason I want to sell the car.”

“How soon are you going?”

“Probably sometime next month. Why?”

“Oh, I just wondered.” She didn’t say anything more for

a minute or two; then she asked, “Are you married?

“No,” I said.

“Did you ever think of making a lot of money?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“But did you ever actually think of doing anything

about it?”

“Sure. Someday I’m going to invent the incandescent lamp.”

“A little soured, Mr. Scarborough? You surely haven’t run out of dreams already? At—twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-nine. Look, with a dream and ten cents you can buy a cup of coffee. The only thing I was ever any good at was moving a football from one place to another place, with ten guys helping me. And you need two knees for it. Does this car look like twenty-five hundred bucks

to you?”

“A little tough,” she murmured. “That’s nice.”

“Why?”

“I was just thinking again. And I do like the car.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

She turned her head then and smiled at me. “Maybe,” she said. “We might make a deal.” She didn’t say any more. We drove on down the beach.

When we came back and parked in front of the apartment house she turned off the ignition and started to drop the keys in her purse. I held out my hand for them, saying nothing. Our eyes met, and she shrugged. We got out.

I looked back along the curb, and ahead.