The Sunny Side. A. A. Milne
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suppose," said Archie to Simpson, "they do expect all of us and not only you? You told them that about half London was coming?"
"We're only six," said Myra, "because I've just counted again, but we seem about twenty."
"It's quite all right," said Simpson cheerfully. "I said we'd be six."
"But six in a letter is much smaller than six of us like this; and when they see our luggage—"
"Let's go back," I suggested, suddenly nervous. To be five guests of the guest of a man you have never met is delicate work.
At this critical moment Archie assumed command. He is a Captain in the
Yeomanry and has tackled bigger jobs than this in his time.
"We must get ourselves into proper order," he said. "Simpson, the villa has been lent to you; you must go first. Dahlia and I come next. When we arrive you will introduce us as your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mannering. Then turning to Myra you say, 'Mr. Mannering's sister; and this,' you add, 'is her husband.' Then—er—Thomas—"
"It will be difficult to account for Thomas," I said. "Thomas comes at the end. He hangs back a little at first; and then if he sees that there is going to be any awkwardness about him, he can pretend he's come on the wrong night, and apologize and go home again."
"If Thomas goes, I go," said Myra dramatically.
"I have another idea," I said. "Thomas hides here for a bit. We introduce ourselves and settle in, and have lunch; and after lunch we take a stroll in the garden, and to our great surprise discover Thomas. 'Thomas,' we say, 'you here? Dear old chap, we thought you were in England. How splendid! Where are you staying? Oh, but you must stop with us; we can easily have a bed put up for you in the garage.' And then—"
"Not after lunch," said Thomas; "before lunch."
"Don't all be so silly," smiled Dahlia. "They'll wonder what has happened to us if we wait any longer. Besides, the men will be here with the luggage directly. Come along."
"Samuel," said Archie, "forward."
In our new formation we marched up, Simpson excited and rehearsing to himself the words of introduction, we others outwardly calm. At a range of ten yards he opened fire. "How do you do?" he beamed. "Here we all are! Isn't it a lovely—"
The cook-housekeeper, majestic but kindly, came forward with outstretched hand and welcomed him volubly—in French. The other three ladies added their French to hers. There was only one English body on the loggia. It belonged to a bull-dog. The bull-dog barked loudly at Simpson in English.
There was no "Cook's homme" to save Simpson this time. But he rose to the occasion nobly. The scent of the mimosa inspired him.
"Merci," he said, "merci. Oui, n'est ce pas! Delightful. Er—these are—ces sont mes amis. Er—Dahlia, come along—er, Monsieur et Madame Mannering—er—Myra, la soeur de Monsieur—er—where are you, old chap?—le mari de la soeur de Monsieur. Er—Thomas—er—" (he was carried away by memories of his schoolboy French), "le frère du jardinier—er—" He wheeled round and saw me; introduced me again; introduced Myra as my wife, Archie as her brother, and Dahlia as Archie's wife; and then with a sudden inspiration presented Thomas grandly as "le beau-père du petit fils de mes amis Monsieur et Madame Mannering." Thomas seemed more assured of his place as Peter's godfather than as the brother of the gardener.
There were four ladies; we shook hands with all of them. It took us a long time, and I doubt if we got it all in even so, for twice I found myself shaking hands with Simpson. But these may have been additional ones thrown in. It was over at last, and we followed the staff indoors.
And then we had another surprise. It was broken to us by Dahlia, who, at Simpson's urgent request, took up the position of lady of the house, and forthwith received the flowing confidences of the housekeeper.
"Two of us have to sleep outside," she said.
"Where?" we all asked blankly.
We went on to the loggia again, and she pointed to a little house almost hidden by olive-trees in a corner of the garden below us.
"Oh, well, that's all right," said Archie. "It's on the estate. Thomas, you and Simpson won't mind that a bit, will you?"
"We can't turn Samuel out of his own house," said Myra indignantly.
"We aren't turning him; he wants to go. But, of course, if you and your young man would like to live there instead—"
Myra looked at me eagerly.
"It would be rather fun," she said. "We'd have another little honeymoon all to ourselves."
"It wouldn't really be a honeymoon," I objected. "We should always be knocking up against trippers in the garden, Archies and Samuels and Thomases and what not. They'd be all over the place."
Dahlia explained the domestic arrangements. The honeymooners had their little breakfast in their own little house, and then joined the others for the day at about ten.
"Or eleven," said Thomas.
"It would be rather lovely," said Myra thoughtfully.
"Yes," I agreed; "but have you considered that—Come over this way a moment, where Thomas and Simpson can't hear, while I tell you some of the disadvantages."
I led her into a quiet corner and suggested a few things to her which I hoped would not occur to the other two.
Item: That if it was raining hard at night, it would be beastly. Item: That if you suddenly found you'd left your pipe behind, it would be rotten. Item: That if, as was probable, there wasn't a proper bathroom in the little house, it would be sickening. Item: That if she had to walk on muddy paths in her evening shoes, it would be—
At this point Myra suddenly caught the thread of the argument. We went back to the others.
"We think," said Myra, "it would be perfectly heavenly in the little house; but—" She hesitated.
"But at the same time," I said, "we think it's up to Simpson and Thomas to be English gentlemen. Samuel, it's your honour."
There was a moment's silence.
"Come along," said Thomas to Simpson, "let's go and look at it."
* * * * *
After lunch, clean and well-fed and happy, we lay in deck-chairs on the loggia and looked lazily down at the Mediterranean.
"Thank you, Samuel, for bringing us," said Dahlia gently. "Your friends must be very fond of you to have lent you this lovely place."
"Not fonder than we are," said Myra, smiling at him.
IV.
BEFORE LUNCH
I found Myra in the hammock at the end of the loggia.
"Hallo," I said.
"Hallo." She looked up from her book and waved her hand. "Mentone on the left, Monte Carlo on the right," she said, and returned to her book again. Simpson had mentioned the situation so many times that it had become a catch-phrase with us.
"Fancy reading on a lovely morning like this," I complained.
"But that's why. It's a very gloomy play by Ibsen, and whenever it's simply more than I can bear, I look up and see Mentone on the left, Monte Carlo on the right—I mean, I see all the loveliness round me, and then I know the world isn't so bad after all." She put her book down. "Are you alone?"
I gripped her wrist suddenly and put the paper-knife to her throat.
"We