autocrats in our own little kingdom, I elected to cast away
most of the memories of these comparatively insipid holidays.
But not all, and of those I retain I will describe at least
two, one in the present chapter on the East Anglian coast, the
other later on.

It was cold, though the month was August; it blew and the sky
was grey and rain beginning to fall when we came down about
noon to a small town on the Norfolk coast, where we hoped to
find lodging and such comforts as could be purchased out of a
slender purse. It was a small modern pleasure town of an
almost startling appearance owing to the material used in
building its straight rows of cottages and its ugly square
houses and villas. This was an orange-brown stone found in
the neighbourhood, the roofs being all of hard, black slate.
I had never seen houses of such a colour, it was stronger,
more glaring and aggressive than the reddest brick, and there
was not a green thing to partially screen or soften it, nor
did the darkness of the wet weather have any mitigating effect
on it. The town was built on high ground, with an open grassy
space before it sloping down to the cliff in which steps had
been cut to give access to the beach, and beyond the cliff we
caught sight of the grey, desolate, wind-vexed sea. But the
rain was coming down more and more heavily, turning the
streets into torrents, so that we began to envy those who had
found a shelter even in so ugly a place. No one would take us
in. House after house, street after street, we tried, and at
every door with "Apartments to Let" over it where we knocked
the same hateful landlady-face appeared with the same
triumphant gleam in the fish-eyes and the same smile on the