A week after the liner Atlantic had docked at Southampton, Sam Marlowe
might have been observed--and was observed by various of the
residents--sitting on a bench on the esplanade of that repellent
watering-place, Bingley-on-the-Sea, in Sussex. All watering-places on
the South Coast of England are blots on the landscape, but, though I am
aware that by saying it I shall offend the civic pride of some of the
others, none are so peculiarly foul as Bingley-on-the-Sea. The asphalt
on the Bingley esplanade is several degrees more depressing than the
asphalt on other esplanades. The Swiss waiters at the Hotel Magnificent,
where Sam was stopping, are in a class of bungling incompetence by
themselves, the envy and despair of all the other Swiss waiters at all
the other Hotels Magnificent along the coast. For dreariness of aspect
Bingley-on-the-Sea stands alone. The very waves that break on the
shingle seem to creep up the beach reluctantly, as if it revolted them
to come to such a place.

Why, then, was Sam Marlowe visiting this ozone-swept Gehenna? Why, with
all the rest of England at his disposal, had he chosen to spend a week
at breezy, blighted Bingley?

Simply because he had been disappointed in love. He had sought relief
by slinking off alone to the most benighted spot he knew, in the same
spirit as other men in similar circumstances had gone off to the
Rockies to shoot grizzly-bears.

To a certain extent the experiment had proved successful. If the Hotel
Magnificent had not cured his agony, the service and the cooking there
had at least done much to take his mind off it. His heart still ached,
but he felt equal to going to London and seeing his father, which, of