The Sunny Side. A. A. Milne
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eagerly.
"It's very kind of you, Samuel," said Dahlia, "but I don't think—"
Archie nodded to Simpson.
"You leave this to me," he said confidentially. "We're going."
II.
ON THE WAY
"Toulon," announced Archie, as the train came to a stop and gave out its plaintive, dying whistle. "Naval port of our dear allies, the French. This would interest Thomas."
"If he weren't asleep," I said.
"He'll be here directly," said Simpson from the little table for two on the other side of the gangway. "I'm afraid he had a bad night. Here, garçon—er—donnez-moi du café et—er-" But the waiter had slipped past him again—the fifth time.
"Have some of ours," said Myra kindly, holding out the pot.
"Thanks very much, Myra, but I may as well wait for Thomas, and—garçon, du café pour—I don't think he'll be—deux cafés, garçon, s'il vous—it's going to be a lovely day."
Thomas came in quietly, sat down opposite Simpson, and ordered breakfast.
"Samuel wants some too," said Myra.
Thomas looked surprised, grunted and ordered another breakfast.
"You see how easy it is," said Archie. "Thomas, we're at Toulon, where the ententes cordiales come from. You ought to have been up long ago taking notes for the Admiralty."
"I had a rotten night," said Thomas. "Simpson fell out of bed in the middle of it."
"Oh, poor Samuel!"
"You don't mean to say you gave him the top berth?" I asked in surprise.
"You must have known he'd fall out."
"But, Thomas dear, surely Samuel's just falling-out-of-bed noise wouldn't wake you up," said Myra. "I always thought you slept so well."
"He tried to get back into my bed."
"I was a little dazed," explained Simpson hastily, "and I hadn't got my spectacles."
"Still you ought to have been able to see Thomas there."
"Of course I did see him as soon as I got in, and then I remembered I was up above. So I climbed up."
"It must be rather difficult climbing up at night," thought Dahlia.
"Not if you get a good take-off, Dahlia," said Simpson earnestly.
"Simpson got a good one off my face," explained Thomas.
"My dear old chap, I was frightfully sorry. I did come down at once and tell you how sorry I was, didn't I?"
"You stepped back on to it," said Thomas shortly, and he turned his attention to the coffee.
Our table had finished breakfast. Dahlia and Myra got up slowly, and
Archie and I filled our pipes and followed them out.
"Well, we'll leave you to it," said Archie to the other table. "Personally, I think it's Thomas's turn to step on Simpson. But don't be long, because there's a good view coming."
The good view came, and then another and another, and they merged together and became one long, moving panorama of beauty. We stood in the corridor and drank it in … and at intervals we said "Oh-h!" and "Oh, I say!" and "Oh, I say, really!" And there was one particular spot I wish I could remember where, so that it might be marked by a suitable tablet—at the sight of which Simpson was overheard to say, "Mon Dieu!" for (probably) the first time in his life.
"You know, all these are olive trees, you chaps," he said every five minutes. "I wonder if there are any olives growing on them?"
"Too early," said Archie. "It's the sardine season now."
It was at Cannes that we saw the first oranges.
"That does it," I said to Myra. "We're really here. And look, there's a lemon tree. Give me the oranges and lemons, and you can have all the palms and the cactuses and the olives."
"Like polar bears in the arctic regions," said Myra.
I thought for a moment. Superficially there is very little resemblance between an orange and a polar bear.
"Like polar bears," I said hopefully.
"I mean," luckily she went on, "polar bears do it for you in the polar regions. You really know you're there then. Give me the polar bears, I always say, and you can keep the seals and the walruses and the penguins. It's the hallmark."
"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 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.
We halted a moment out of sight of the ladies above and considered ourselves. It came to us with a sudden shock that we were a very large