August 19th.--Robert asks if Napoleonic figure is meant for a paper-weight? I am inwardly surprised and relieved at this extremely ingenious idea, and at once say Yes, certainly. Can see by Robert's expression that he feels doubtful, but firmly change subject immediately.
Day unmarked by any particularly sensational development except that waves are even larger than usual, and twice succeed in knocking me off my feet, the last time just as I am assuring Vicky that she is perfectly safe with me. Robert retrieves us both from extremest depths of the ocean, and Vicky roars. Two small artificial curls--Scylla and Charybdis--always worn under bathing-cap in order that my own hair may be kept dry--are unfortunately swept away, together with bathing-cap, in this disaster, and seen no more. Bathing-cap retrieved by Casabianca, but do not like to enquire whether he cannot also pursue Scylla and Charybdis, and am accordingly obliged to return to shore without them.
(Interesting, although unprofitable, speculation comes into being here: Would not conflict between chivalry and common sense have arisen if Casabianca had sighted elusive side-curls, Scylla and Charybdis? What, moreover, would have been acceptable formula for returning them to me? Should much like to put this problem to him, but decide not to do so, at any rate for the present.)
August 21st.--End of stay at St. Briac approaches, and I begin to feel sentimental, but this weakness unshared by anybody else.
Loss of Scylla and Charybdis very inconvenient indeed.
August 23rd.--Am put to shame by Vicky whilst sitting outside drinking coffee on the place with Robert and Casabianca, fellow-guests surrounding us on every side. She bawls from an upper window that she is just going to bed, but has not kissed Casabianca good-night and would like to do so. I crane my head upwards at very uncomfortable angle and sign to her to desist, upon which she obligingly yells that To-morrow morning will do, and everybody looks at us. Casabianca remains unperturbed, and merely says chillingly that he Hopes she will Wash her Face first. On thinking this over, it strikes me as surely unsurpassed effort as deterrent to undesired advances, and can only trust that Vicky will not brazenly persist in path of amorous indiscretion in spite of it.
(N.B. Am often a prey to serious anxiety as to dear Vicky's future career. Question suggests itself: Is Success in Life incompatible with High Moral Ideals? Answer, whatever it is, more or less distressing. Can only trust that delightful scholastic establishment at Mickleham will be able to deal adequately with this problem.)
Robert shows marked tendency to say that Decent English Food again will come as a great relief, and is more cheerful than I have seen him since we left home. Take advantage of this to suggest that he and I should visit Casino at Dinard and play roulette, which may improve immediate finances, now very low, and in fact have twice had to borrow from Casabianca, without saying anything about it to Robert.
Casino agreed upon, and we put on best clothes--which have hitherto remained folded in suitcase and extremely inadequate shelves of small wardrobe that always refuses to open.
Bus takes us to Dinard at breakneck speed, and deposits us at Casino. All is electric light, advertisement--(Byrrh)--and vacancy, and bartender tells us that no one will think of arriving before eleven o'clock. We have a drink each, for want of anything better to do, and sit on green velvet sofa and read advertisements. Robert asks What is Gala des Tou-tous? and seems disappointed when I say that I think it is little dogs. Should like--or perhaps not--to know what he thought it was.
We continue to sit on green velvet sofa, and bar-tender looks sorry for us, and turns on more electric light. This obliges us, morally, to have another drink each, which we do. I develop severe pain behind the eyes--(Query: Wood-alcohol, or excess of electric light?)--and feel slightly sick. Also Byrrh now wavering rather oddly on wall.
Robert says Well, as though he were going to make a suggestion, but evidently thinks better of it again, and nothing transpires. After what seems like several hours of this, three men with black faces and musical instruments come in, and small, shrouded heap in far corner of salle reveals 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