Well, indeed, may the happy manager who has been fortunate enough to book a week there swell with pride as he passes the turnstile of the Pier, without the prepayment of twopence, and sees the majestic domes and spires of the Pavilion whitely silhouette themselves against the turquoise Channel waters. In such inspired surroundings, with the chuckle of sea beneath his feet, and the singing of the wind in his ears, who could choose but feel carefree and joyous, and give both-handedly of his artistic best? But Eliphalet Cardomay, one of the mildest creatures God ever placed upon earth—a man of most even temper and lovable qualities—sensitive to an extreme of the influences of his environments—was in a dark and forbidding mood. The beauty of the day, the music of the water, the rococo architecture, were as nothing to him. With hands clasped behind his back, stickless and hatless, he strode the pier boards like a man possessed. The importunities of peroxided young ladies who, from the vantage of their little kiosks, besought him to buy chocolates, local views, frozen roses—or to solve the mystery of a certain walking-stick which in adept hands would transform itself into a useless pen—he almost rudely ignored. “Phtsss!” he exploded aloud. “The man’s a coward—an incompetent.” He gripped the railings of the Pier and gazed fiercely out to sea, while the wind played cornfields in his long grey hair. A photographer, ever alert for fresh victims, approached and commenting upon the favourable condition of the elements, suggested that the gentleman might feel disposed to have a “likeness” taken. “I do not feel disposed,” returned Eliphalet, curtly. “I have some most amusing backgrounds,” continued the photographer, in no wise rebuffed, and proceeded, to describe how, in his professional opinion, Eliphalet would prove a suitable subject to place his head through a hole in a large canvas upon which was painted an astonishingly-clad individual riding on a rocking-horse. He wound up with the words, “Causes roars of laughter.” Eliphalet spun round and fixed two pin-points upon his frock-coated persecutor. “Are you seeking to amuse yourself at my expense?” “No, sir—I assure you.” “Then go away.” But the photographer was not a man to be trifled with. His hand flew to his hip pocket, in the manner of a mining-camp desperado, and withdrew a neat fan of samples of his craft. “I am sure,” he blandly ventured, “after a glance through these, I should number you among my patrons.” With a view to scattering the photographer’s examples upon the waves, Eliphalet Cardomay snatched them from the extended hand; but before he had accomplished his intention he abruptly checked himself. The top photograph had caught his eye. It depicted a knock-kneed individual dressed in a close-fitting striped garment, shivering upon the steps of a bathing-machine. “Ha!” exclaimed Eliphalet, surveying the image at the length of his arm. “Ha!”