"I'm an Englishman, I am," he concludes from the pavement. "No one
can't close my mouth with 'alf-crowns."
For a brief space he stands scowling up at the porch as though
challenging all and sundry to perform this feat, then, taking his wife
by the arm, moves off with her and the still insistent child towards
the beach. The crowd on the pavement, regretfully convinced that the
entertainment is at an end, disperses slowly. Rolls-Royce, seemingly
unconscious of the interest of Charteris and our host, who are looking
at him covertly as at some zoological specimen, relights his cigar and
sits glowering across the road, and silence falls upon the scene--a
silence broken at last by the lady in the diamonds, who has resumed
her languid pose in the wicker-chair.
"'Orrible people!" she observes, addressing the occupants of the porch
generally. "Nice state o' things when you can't even be safe from 'em
in yer own 'otel. You don't seem to be able to get away from these
low-class people hanywhere--you don't reely!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Energetic Motor-Cyclist._ "WHY THE DEUCE DON'T YOU SIT
STILL? YOU'LL HAVE US OVER IN A MINUTE."]
* * * * *
40-1920 A.D.
CALIGULA the man (quite mad, of course)
Conferred the consulship upon his horse.
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