August was cold and stormy throughout the British Isles. In the South of France prayers for rain were being offered. The papers said that the Biarritz season was the most brilliant ever known. Pomeroy, who was at a loose end, began to count the days. Then came a post-card. _August 28th._ _Leaving for Biarritz on September 1st. Could you postpone your visit till the 15th? I should have gone before only it’s been impossible to get away. If I don’t hear I shall assume it’s all right._ _B.S._ Receiving it from the hall-porter, Pomeroy had to be assisted out of the vestibule. For a long time he seemed to have lost the power of speech. Then this returned—in spate. Pomeroy raged. He telephoned to Forsyth, but Forsyth was out of town. Then he wrote to Belinda—a letter three sheets long. This, when written, he destroyed. Finally he telegraphed. _Shall arrive September 15th as sure as water’s wet please inform agent Pomeroy._ It was the last straw. * * * * * The fifteenth day of September was the monarch of a glorious week. The sky was cloudless, and the sun, a beneficent giant, beamed upon a fabulous world. The ocean stretched, a flood of dark-blue quicksilver, brilliant and tremulous. The yellow coast and gay green countryside made up a ragged counterpane vivid and vast enough to shoulder Mandeville. The breath of a slumbering breeze tempered the savoury air. Ivan, who had lain at Bordeaux the night before, came floating into Biarritz with a thankful heart. As his car swept up the drive of _Les Iles d’Or_, his servant, unshaven and travel-stained, rose from a pile of luggage beside a bed of hydrangeas. “What’s the matter?” said his master, setting a foot upon the brake. “Can’t you get in?” “No, sir. The villa seems to be occupied, sir.” “_What?_”