And more, if I have to take along Helga. Try to reach
us by one, or a quarter past."
Mrs. Phillips had lately taken on a house among the sand dunes beyond the
state line. This singular region had recently acquired so wide a reputation
for utter neglect and desolation that--despite its distance from town,
whether in miles or in hours--no one could quite afford to ignore it.
Picnics, pageants, encampments and excursions all united in proclaiming its
remoteness, its silence, its vacuity. Along the rim of ragged slopes which
put a term to the hundreds of miles of water that spread from the north,
people tramped, bathed, canoed, motored and week-ended. Within a few
seasons Duneland had acquired as great a reputation for "prahlerische
Dunkelheit"--for ostentatious obscurity--as ever was enjoyed even by
Schiller's Wallenstein. "Lovers of Nature" and "Friends of the Landscape"
moved through its distant and inaccessible purlieus in squads and cohorts.
Everybody had to spend there at least one Sunday in the summer season.
There were enthusiasts whose interest ran from March to November. There
were fanatics who insisted on trips thitherward in January.
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