r a moment. Superficially there is very little resemblance
between an orange and a polar bear.

"Like polar bears," I said hopefully.

"I mean," luckily she went on, "polar bears do it for you in the polar
regions. You really know you're there then. Give me the polar bears, I
always say, and you can keep the seals and the walruses and the penguins.
It's the hallmark."

"Right. I knew you meant something. In London," I went on, "it is
raining. Looking out of my window I see a lamp-post (not in flower)
beneath a low, grey sky. Here we see oranges against a blue sky a million
miles deep. What a blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy-dress ball when we
get back. You go as an orange and I'll go as a very blue, blue sky, and
you shall lean against me."

"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra.

But now observe us approaching Monte Carlo. For an hour past Simpson has
been collecting his belongings. Two bags, two coats, a camera, a rug,
Thomas, golf-clubs, books--his compartment is full of things which have
to be kept under his eye lest they should evade him at the last moment.
As the train leaves Monaco his excitement is intense.

"I think, old chap," he says to Thomas, "I'll wear the coats after all."

"And the bags," says Thomas, "and then you'll have a suit."

Simpson puts on the two coats and appears very big and hot.

"I'd better have my hands free," he says, and straps the camera and the
golf-clubs on to himself. "Then if you nip out and get a porter I can
hand the bags out to him through the window."

"All right," says Thomas. He is deep in his book and looks as if he were
settled in his corner of the carriage for the day.

The train stops. There is bustle, noise, confusion. Thomas in some
magical way has disappeared. A porter appears at the open window and
speaks voluble French to Simpson. Simpson looks round wildly for Thomas.
"Thomas!" he cries. "_Un moment_," he says to the porter. "Thomas! _Mon
ami, it n'est pas_--I say, Thomas, old chap, where are you? _Attendez un
moment. Mon ami_--er--_reviendra_--" He is very hot. He is wearing, in
addition to what one doesn't mention, an ordinary waistcoat, a woolly
waistcoat for steamer use, a tweed coat, an aquascutum, an ulster, a
camera and a bag of golfclubs. The porter, with many gesticulations, is
still hurling French at him.

It is too much for Simpson. He puts his head out of the window and,
observing in the distance a figure of such immense dignity that it