"Right. I knew you meant something. In London," I went on, "it is
raining. Looking out of my window I see a lamp-post (not in flower)
beneath a low, grey sky. Here we see oranges against a blue sky a million
miles deep. What a blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy-dress ball when we
get back. You go as an orange and I'll go as a very blue, blue sky, and
you shall lean against me."

"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra.

But now observe us approaching Monte Carlo. For an hour past Simpson has
been collecting his belongings. Two bags, two coats, a camera, a rug,
Thomas, golf-clubs, books--his compartment is full of things which have
to be kept under his eye lest they should evade him at the last moment.
As the train leaves Monaco his excitement is intense.

"I think, old chap," he says to Thomas, "I'll wear the coats after all."

"And the bags," says Thomas, "and then you'll have a suit."

Simpson puts on the two coats and appears very big and hot.

"I'd better have my hands free," he says, and straps the camera and the
golf-clubs on to himself. "Then if you nip out and get a porter I can
hand the bags out to him through the window."

"All right," says Thomas. He is deep in his book and looks as if he were
settled in his corner of the carriage for the day.

The train stops. There is bustle, noise, confusion. Thomas in some