itself as a piano.
Bar-tender, surprisingly, has yet further resources at his command in regard to electric light, and we are flooded with still greater illumination. Scene still further enlivened by arrival of very old gentleman in crumpled dress-clothes, stout woman in a green beaded dress that suggests Kensington High Street, and very young girl with cropped hair and scarlet arms. They stand in the very middle of the salle and look bewildered, and I feel that Robert and I are old habitués.
Robert says dashingly What About Another Drink? and I say No, better not, and then have one, and feel worse than ever. Look at Robert to see if he has noticed anything, and am struck by curious air about him, as of having been boiled and glazed. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, illusion produced by my own state, and feel better not to enquire, but devote entire attention to focussing Byrrh in spot where first sighted, instead of pursuing it all over walls and ceiling.
By the time this more or less accomplished, quite a number of people arrived, though all presenting slightly lost and dégommé appearance.
Robert stares at unpleasant-looking elderly man with red hair, and says Good Heavens, if that isn't old Pinkie Morrison, whom he last met in Shanghai Bar in nineteen-hundred-and-twelve. I say, Is he a friend? and Robert replies No, he never could stand the fellow, and old Pinkie Morrison is allowed to lapse once more.
Am feeling extremely ill, and obliged to say so, and Robert suggests tour of the rooms, which we accomplish in silence. Decide, by mutual consent, that we do not want to play roulette, or anything else, but would prefer to go back to bed, and Robert says he thought at the time that those drinks had something fishy about them.
I am reminded, by no means for the first time, of Edgeworthian classic, Rosamond and the Party of Pleasure--but literary allusions never a great success with Robert at any time, and feel sure that this is no moment for taking undue risks.
We return to St. Briac and make no further reference to evening's outing, except that Robert enquires, just as I am dropping off to sleep, whether it seems quite worth while, having spent seventy francs or so just for the sake of being poisoned and seeing a foul sight like old Pinkie Morrison? This question entirely rhetorical, and make no attempt to reply to it.
August 24th.--Much struck with extreme tact and good feeling of Casabianca at breakfast, who, after one look at Robert and myself, refrains from pressing the point as to How We enjoyed the Casino last night?
August 27th.--Last Day now definitely upon us, and much discussion as to how we are to spend it. Robert suggests Packing--but this not intended to be taken seriously--and Casabianca assures us that extremely interesting and instructive Ruins lie at a distance of less than forty kilometres, should we care to visit them. Am sorry to say that none of us do care to visit them, though I endeavour to palliate this by feeble and unconvincing reference to unfavourable weather.
I say what about Saint Cast, which is reputed to have admirable water-chute? or swimming-baths at Dinard? Children become uncontrollably agitated here, and say Oh, please can we bathe in the morning, and then come back to hotel for lunch, and bathe again in the afternoon and have tea at English Tea-Rooms? As this programme is precisely the one that we have been following daily ever since we arrived, nothing could be easier, and we agree. I make mental note to the effect that the young are definitely dependent on routine, and have dim idea of evolving interesting little article on the question, to be handsomely paid for by daily Press--but nothing comes of it.
Packing takes place, and Casabianca reminds me--kindly, but with an air of having expected rather better staff-work--that Robin's shorts are still at cleaners in Dinard. I say 0 Hell, and then weakly add -p to the end of it, and hope he hasn't noticed, and he offers to go into Dinard and fetch them. I say No, no, really, I shouldn't dream of troubling him, and he goes, but unfortunately brings back wrong parcel, from which we extract gigantic pair of white flannel trousers that have nothing to do with any of us.
French chambermaid, Germaine, who has followed entire affair from the start, says Mon Dieu! alors c'est tout à recommencer? which has a despairing ring, and makes me feel hopeless, but Casabianca again comes to the rescue and assures me that he can Telephone.
(N.B. Casabianca's weekly remuneration entirely inadequate and have desperate thoughts of doubling it on the spot, but financial considerations render this impossible, and perhaps better concentrate on repaying him four hundred francs borrowed on various occasions since arrival here.)
We go to bathe as usual, and I am accosted by strange woman in yellow pyjamas--cannot imagine how she can survive the cold--who says she met me in South Audley Street some years ago, don't I remember? Have no association whatever with South Audley Street, except choosing dinner-service there with Robert in distant days of wedding presents--(dinner service now no longer with us, and replaced by vastly inferior copy of Wedgwood). However, I say Yes, yes, of course, and yellow pyjamas at once introduces My boy at Dartmouth--very lank and mottled, and does not look me in the eye--My Sister who Has a Villa Out Here, and My Sister's Youngest Girl--Cheltenham College. Feel that I ought to do something on my side, but look round in vain, Robert, children and Casabianca all having departed, with superhuman rapidity, to extremely distant rock.
The sister with the villa says that she has read my book--ha-ha-ha--and how do I think of it all? I look blankly at her and say that I don't know, and feel that I am being inadequate. Everybody else evidently thinks so too, and rather distressing silence ensues, ice-cold wind--cannot say why, or from whence--suddenly rising with great violence and blowing us all to pieces.
I say Well, more feebly than ever, and yellow pyjamas says 0 dear, this weather, really--and supposes that we shall all meet down here to-morrow, and I say Yes, of course, before I remember that we cross to-night--but feel quite unable to reopen discussion, and retire to bathing-cabin.
Robert enquires later who that woman was? and I say that I cannot remember, but think her name was something like Busvine. After some thought, Robert says Was it Morton? to which I reply No, more like Chamberlain.
Hours later, remember that it was Heywood.
August 28th.--Depart from St. Briac by bus at seven o'clock, amidst much agitation. Entire personnel of hotel assembles to see us off, and Vicky kisses everybody. Robin confines himself to shaking hands quite suddenly with elderly Englishman in plus-fours--with whom he has never before exchanged a word--and elderly Englishman says that Now, doors will no longer slam on his landing every evening, he supposes. (N.B. Disquieting thought: does this consideration perhaps account for the enthusiasm with which we are all being despatched on our way?)
Robert counts luggage, once in French and three times in English, and I hear Casabianca--who has never of his own free will exchanged a syllable with any of his fellow-guests--replying to the retired Rag-picker's hopes of meeting again some day, with civil assent. Am slightly surprised at this.
(Query: Why should display of duplicity in others wear more serious aspect than similar lapse in oneself? Answer comes there none.)
Bus removes us from St. Briac, and we reach Dinard, and are there told that boat is not sailing to-night, and that we can (a) Sleep at St. Malo, (b) Remain at Dinard or (c) Return to St. Briac. All agree that this last would be intolerable anti-climax and not to be thought of, and that accommodation must be sought at Dinard.
Robert says that this is going to run us in for another ten pounds at least--which it does.
September 1st.--Home once more, and customary vicissitudes thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.
Temporary
