Ostend is a magnificent white Kursaal on the Belgian coast. Certain requisites are attached to it in the way of great hotels and villas along a tiled _digue_, and innumerable bathing-machines on the sands below. There is an old town, it is true, somewhere behind it, with quaint narrow streets, a Place d’Armes dotted round with cafés, and a thronged market-square; there is also a bustling port and a fishing population. But the Ostend of practical life begins and ends at the Kursaal. Were it to perish during a night, the following day would see the exodus of twenty thousand visitors. The vast glass rotunda can hold thousands. Within its precincts you can do anything in reason and out of reason. You can knit all day long like Penelope, or you can go among the Sirens with or without the precautions of Ulysses. You can consume anything from a biscuit to a ten-course dinner. You can play dominoes at centime points or roulette with a forty-franc minimum. You can listen to music, you can dance, you can go to sleep. You can write letters, send telegrams, and open a savings-bank account. By moving to one side or the other of a glass screen you can sit in the warm sunshine or in the keen sea wind. You can study the fashions of Europe from St. Petersburg to Dublin, and if you are a woman, you can wear the most sumptuous garments Providence has deigned to bestow on you. And lastly, if you are looking for a place where you will be sure to find the very last person in the world you desire to see, you will meet with every success at the Kursaal of Ostend. Such was Mrs. Winstanley’s passing thought one day. She was there with Sophia and Evan Wilmington. It was always a great pleasure, she used to say, to have young people about her; and very naturally, since young people can be particularly useful in strange places to a middle-aged lady. The brother and sister fetched and carried for her all day long, which was very nice and suitable, and Mrs. Winstanley was in her most affable mood. On the day in question, however, she saw, to her astonishment and annoyance, Canon Chisely and Yvonne making their way towards her through the crowded lines of tables. “Good gracious, Everard!” she said as they came up. “How did you find your way here? I thought you were going to Switzerland.” “So we are,” replied the Canon. “We have broken our journey. And as for getting here, we took the boat from Dover and then walked.” “The frivolity of the place is infecting you already, Canon,” cried Sophia, with a laugh. “I hope you are going to stay a long time.” “Oh, not too long,” said Yvonne. “It wouldn’t be fair to the Canon, who needs some mountain air. This is just a little treat all for me.” She glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. It was good of him to tarry for her sake in this Vanity Fair of a place.