again--to work! The story lies before me, I hope, strong and
clear. Not to be easily told; but nothing of that sort IS to be easily
done that _I_ know of." At work it became his habit to sit late, and
then, putting off his usual walk until night, to lie down among the
roses reading until after tea ("middle-aged Love in a blouse and belt"),
when he went down to the pier. "The said pier at evening is a phase of
the place we never see, and which I hardly knew. But I never did behold
such specimens of the youth of my country, male and female, as pervade
that place. They are really, in their vulgarity and insolence, quite
disheartening. One is so fearfully ashamed of them, and they contrast so
very unfavourably with the natives." Mr. Wilkie Collins was again his
companion in the summer weeks, and the presence of Jerrold for the
greater part of the time added much to his enjoyment.

The last of the camp was now at hand. It had only a battalion of men in
it, and a few days would see them out. At first there was horrible
weather, "storms of wind, rushes of rain, heavy squalls, cold airs, sea
fogs, banging shutters, flapping doors, and beaten down rose-trees by
the hundred; but then came a delightful week among the corn fields and
bean fields, and afterwards the end. It looks very singular and very
miserable. The soil being sand, and the grass having been trodden away
these two years, the wind from the sea carries the sand into the chinks
and ledges of all the doors and windows, and chokes them;--just as if
they belonged to Arab huts in the desert. A number of the
non-commissioned officers made turf-couches outside their huts, and
there were turf orchestras for the bands to play in; all of which are
fast getting sanded over in a most Egyptian manner. The Fair is on,
under the walls of the haute ville over the way. At one popular show,
the Malakhoff is taken every half-hour between 4 and 11. Bouncing
explosions announce every triumph of the French arms (the English have
nothing to do with it); and in the intervals a man outside blows a
railway whistle--straight into the dining-room. Do you know that the
French soldiers call the English medal 'The Salvage Medal'--meaning that
they got it for saving the English army? I don't suppose there are a
thousand people in all France who believe that we did anything but get
rescued by the French. And I am confident that the no-result of our
precious Chelsea enquiry has wonderfully strengthene