"But not sick people," she said, "here they are conscientious. It's a pretty little band-stand; what time does the band play?" "It'll begin in June, I think," he answered. "June?" cried Regina. "It's not the season," he pointed out. "Of course it's quiet just now." "I don't wish to cavil," said Ted, with a forbearing smile, "but when you tell us it is not the season, I am struck by a slight discrepancy in your statements. A few minutes ago you told us it was a winter place." "Well, so it is, but it's first of all an English place. You mustn't ask for bands to discourse in band-stands all the year round, my dear fellow--such things don't happen.... A 'town band' enlivens the streets once a week, I believe; I'm not an authority yet--I only came down yesterday morning, and I've been setting my house in order. There's a theatre," he added hopefully; "we might drop in to-night, if you like. I can't say what is going on there, but we'll ascertain." They spied a framed play-bill in a confectioner's window on the way back, and stopped to examine it. Though the piece was familiar to them, and the names of the company were strange, they crowded before the play-bill cheerfully until they discovered that it bore an ancient date. The theatre, they learnt, was now closed, excepting for an orchestral concert every Thursday evening. This was Saturday. "We'll have a jolly evening at home," said Conrad. "There isn't a billiard table, I suppose?" inquired Regina; "I'm an awful swell with the cue. I make them play every night at the Abbey when we're there. Polpero chaffs me about it immensely; he's one of the old school--sweet, but of the old school. It's such fun--I chaff him back. Toto _roars_." The inventory had not included a billiard table, but he remembered after dinner that he had seen a Pier "Pavilion" advertised, and his guests seemed encouraged when he mentioned it. Regina said it was fun to be "bohemian" sometimes. The place looked less animated still when they sped forth to be "bohemian." Its aspect was no longer sedate, it was bereaved. The vacant High Street mourned behind its shutters. At the Quadrant a forsaken policeman kept a doleful eye on space. "Everybody must be on the pier," said Conrad. "As soon as we turn the corner we shall see the lights." Their feet sprung echoes in the stricken town as they pressed forward; and through the gloom that veiled a moaning sea, the pier became distinguishable. But no light was on it save the light of a misty moon, no gas-jet glimmered among the globes on either side. The pay-box was black and tenantless; the gates were locked. Against them leant a lonely board, announcing a "Refined Entertainment" for the twenty-second evening of the previous month. The desolation of the scene was tragic. Their return was made in silence, and the first thing happened that recalled the days of their childhood here: they all went to bed early.