"I shall be glad to see Peter again," said Dahlia, as she folded up her
letter from home.

Peter's previous letter, dictated to his nurse-secretary, had, according
to Archie, been full of good things. Cross-examination of the proud
father, however, had failed to reveal anything more stirring than "I love
mummy," and--er--so on.

We were sitting in the loggia after what I don't call breakfast--all of
us except Simpson, who was busy with a mysterious package. We had not
many days left; and I was beginning to feel that, personally, I should
not be sorry to see things like porridge again. Each to his taste.

"The time has passed absurdly quickly," said Myra. "We don't seem to have
done _anything_--except enjoy ourselves. I mean anything specially
Rivierish. But it's been heavenly."

"We've done lots of Rivierish things," I protested. "If you'll be quiet a
moment I'll tell you some."

These were some of the things:

(1) We had been to the Riviera. (Nothing could take away from that. We
had the labels on our luggage.)

(2) We had lost heavily (thirty francs) at the Tables. (This alone
justified the journey.)

(3) Myra had sat next to a Prince at lunch. (Of course she might have