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“We’ve done lots of Rivierish things,” I protested. “If you’ll be quiet a moment I’ll tell you some.”

These were some of the things:

(1) We had been to the Riviera. (Nothing could take away from that. We had the labels on our luggage.)

(2) We had lost heavily (thirty francs) at the Tables. (This alone justified the journey.)

(3) Myra had sat next to a Prince at lunch. (Of course she might have done this in London, but so far there has been no great rush of Princes to our little flat. Dukes, Mayors, Companions of St. Michael and St. George, certainly; but, somehow, not Princes.)

(4) Simpson had done the short third hole at Mt. Agel in three. (His first had cleverly dislodged the ball from the piled-up tee; his second, a sudden nick, had set it rolling down the hill to the green; and the third, an accidental putt, had sunk it.)

(5) Myra and I had seen Corsica. (Question.)

(6) And finally, and best of all, we had sat in the sun, under a blue sky above a blue sea, and watched the oranges and lemons grow.

So, though we had been to but few of the famous beauty spots around, we had had a delightfully lazy time; and as proof that we had not really been at Brighton there were, as I have said, the luggage labels. But we were to be able to show further proof. At this moment Simpson came out of the house, his face beaming with excitement, his hands carefully concealing something behind his back.

“Guess what I’ve got,” he said eagerly.

“The sack,” said Thomas.

“Your new bests,” said Archie.

“Something that will interest us all,” helped Simpson.

“I withdraw my suggestion,” said Archie.

“Something we ought to have brought with us all along.”

“More money,” said Myra.

The tension was extreme. It was obvious that our consuming anxiety would have to be relieved very speedily. To avoid a riot, Thomas went behind Simpson’s back and took his surprise away from him.

“A camera,” he said. “Good idea.”

Simpson was all over himself with bon-hommy.

“I suddenly thought of it the other night,” he said, smiling round at all of us in his happiness, “and I was just going to wake Thomas up to tell him, when I thought I’d keep it a secret. So I wrote to a friend of mine and asked him to send me out one, and some films and things, just as a surprise for you.”

“Samuel, you are a dear,” said Myra, looking at him lovingly.

“You see, I thought, Myra, you’d like to have some records of the place, because they’re so jolly to look back on, and–er, I’m not quite sure how you work it, but I expect some of you know and–er–“

“Come on,” said Myra, “I’ll show you.” She retired with Simpson to a secluded part of the loggia and helped him put the films in.

“Nothing can save us,” said Archie. “We are going to be taken together in a group. Simpson will send it to one of the picture papers, and we shall appear as ‘Another Merry Little Party of Well-known Sun-seekers. Names from left to right: Blank, blank, Mr. Archibald Mannering, blank, blank.’ I’d better go and brush my hair.”

Simpson returned to us, nervous and fully charged with advice.

“Right, Myra, I see. That’ll be all right. Oh, look here, do you–oh yes, I see. Right. Now then–wait a bit–oh yes, I’ve got it. Now then, what shall we have first? A group?”

“Take the house and the garden and the village,” said Thomas. “You’ll see plenty of us afterwards.”

“The first one is bound to be a failure,” I pointed out. “Rather let him fail at us, who are known to be beautiful, than at the garden, which has its reputation yet to make. Afterwards, when he has got the knack, he will be able to do justice to the scenery.”

Archie joined us again, followed by the bull-dog. We grouped ourselves picturesquely.