magical way has disappeared. A porter appears at the open window and
speaks voluble French to Simpson. Simpson looks round wildly for Thomas.
"Thomas!" he cries. "_Un moment_," he says to the porter. "Thomas! _Mon
ami, it n'est pas_--I say, Thomas, old chap, where are you? _Attendez un
moment. Mon ami_--er--_reviendra_--" He is very hot. He is wearing, in
addition to what one doesn't mention, an ordinary waistcoat, a woolly
waistcoat for steamer use, a tweed coat, an aquascutum, an ulster, a
camera and a bag of golfclubs. The porter, with many gesticulations, is
still hurling French at him.

It is too much for Simpson. He puts his head out of the window and,
observing in the distance a figure of such immense dignity that it can
only belong to the station-master, utters to him across the hurly-burly a
wild call for help.

"_Ou est_ Cooks's _homme_?" he cries.



III.

SETTLING DOWN


The villa was high up on the hill, having (as Simpson was to point out
several times later) Mentone on its left hand and Monte Carlo on its
right. A long winding path led up through its garden of olives to the
front door, and through the mimosa trees which flanked this door we could
see already a flutter of white aprons. The staff was on the loggia
waiting to greet us.