So the day passed. They lunched together and dined together. In the intervals they walked upon the sunny front, for the weather was perfect and the sun shone as it only shines at Brighton. Madame, I am quite sure, did not sit upon the sand. It appears also that they visited a succession of picture houses. Madame declares that she is fascinated by this form of entertainment; the variety and rapid movement delight her--as I admit they do my dull self--and she deeply enjoys the blatant crudity of cinematic drama. "It is so entirely unlike life that it transports one to another world," says she. "Here in this strange visionary world of the pictures one lives in a maelstrom of emotions. Boys and girls meet, embrace, and marry all within the space of a few minutes upon the screen and of an hour or two of dramatic action. Children are conceived and born by some lightning process which it would be a happiness for the human kind to learn. Heroes die while strong men bare their heads in grief, and ten minutes later the corpse is capering joyously in a new piece. By attending three or four houses in one afternoon one sups upon emotions and feeds without restraint upon rich, satisfying laughter. Yes, _mon ami_, I love the cinema. Rust did not, I think, greatly interest himself in the pictures, but was happy in the darkness--holding my hand." She laughed as I broke into growls. "Is it not, _mon cher_" she went on, "that the cinemas will always be most popular--however dull may be the pictures--so long as boys and girls, men and women, who love, desire to fondle one another's hands in the dark?" "You and Rust did not love one another," I grunted. "No. We were not the real thing, but we made ourselves into quite a plausible imitation."