XXVI.

All next day they spent with Ottercove. Lord Ottercove habitually put up at Nice, with the sole purpose, it would seem, of dining at Monte Carlo. He came to the Riviera to relax after the strenuous social life of London. And his relaxation, by the force of habit, took the form of whizzing up and down the curved and much frequented road of the Côte d’Azur to lunch at Cannes, to dine at Mentone, or hurrying off to play golf, hurrying to get into bed and sleep hurriedly, to be wakened by Gilbert to dress and hurry along to dine at Rapallo. After a month of such relaxation, he would hurry back to London to rush from house to house (mysteriously preceded by Mrs. Hannibal and his telephone operator) and write hurried articles and print newspapers, and the news boys were already hurrying out of the building carrying batches of them and selling them at a run. Lord Ottercove privately claimed that since his descent on London he had “gingered up” the public life of Great Britain. His success was evidenced by his peerage; which is no guarantee of anything more than success.

His own personality and the effect it produced on his time and surroundings interested and stimulated him beyond all else. An American reporter in Nice had referred in the local Press to Lord Ottercove’s having the head of a musician, and he instantly sent out Gilbert to buy an album with the portraits of all the notable composers, and left it in his private drawing-room, and his friends (who had read the notice) said: “Rex, that chap Beethoven has your head to a t.” And another said, “Rex, upon my word you have mistaken your profession and we enjoin you, ere too late, to turn musical. Then, in a couple of years’ time, they will be saying: ‘Ottercove.... Who the hell is Ottercove?’--‘Oh, the man who wrote the Symphony in B flat.’”

He smiled indulgently. He went down the steps (forgetting the existence of the lift), whistling to himself and wondering ... really if ... and _if really_ ... how nice.

In the car, since the question had been jarringly dropped as it seemed to him, he turned to Eva.

“Eva, do you think,” he said from his reclining, hatless attitude in the depth of the great car, “I look like a composer?”

“You look like an angel, Rex,” she said.

“Thank you, darling.”

“You’re not as beautiful as Ferdinand,” she added, “but you are very clever.”

“Thank you, darling, thank you, dear, that’s comforting.”

So she already called him Rex. Frank was astonished at the rapidity of progress possible to women; and even a little jealous.

“Chris,” said Ottercove, “how is your work getting on? Is it true I hear you mean to blow us all up?”

“If I didn’t others would. Ideas like these never come singly. There must be at least half-a-dozen men now harbouring this amiable idea.”

Lord Ottercove glanced at Frank and Eva. “I told you he was a lunatic.”

“It’s you who are lunatics. Any one could do and talk about doing it, for no one would believe him, everyone would think he was a lunatic.” De Jones looked away, detached.

“Let us change the conversation,” Eva said.

They were hurrying in the direction of Cagnes--a destination which at all times that it is mentioned is accompanied by a sort of footnote that it is a place other than, and therefore not to be confused with, Cannes. “You speak French,” said Ottercove. “Tell him to go to Cagnes. Cagnes, not Cannes.”

Frank took up the telephone tube and said to the chauffeur: “Cagnes.”

“Cagnes,” repeated Lord Ottercove. “Not Cannes.”

“Cagnes,” said Frank into the tube. “Not Cannes.”

“I understand perfectly,” said the chauffeur.

It seemed that the distinction was more familiar than generally supposed. Still, the similarity was unfortunate, and many a passenger for Cagnes must have found himself, unwittingly, in Cannes and, perhaps, with profounder astonishment and reluctance, many a passenger for Cannes must have discovered himself, with inward qualms and bitter questionings, in Cagnes. But there it was, and even Ottercove could not change this state of things.

They alighted on the green hillside by the sea, and Ottercove, perennially the host, opened the basket with the eatables. “Damn!” he said. “That jackass Gilbert has forgotten the glasses.” Inwardly they all cursed Gilbert. “You speak French,” said Ottercove to Frank, “Go and ask that peasant woman on the top of that hill to lend us a few glasses. Here--” He held out a batch of notes.

“I’ve got some money.”

“Here, give her this.”

The old peasant woman who was sitting on the ground beside her donkey could produce but two doubtful looking glasses, and Frank thrust the batch of bank notes--some four hundred francs in all--into her hand.

“But, monsieur!” she cried bewildered. “All this for a couple of glasses! No, no....”

They washed the glasses in champagne, drinking what was left of it and eating delectable sandwiches delicately prepared by a luxurious hotel. Then Lord Ottercove took his Bible out of his side-pocket and began to read:

“‘And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood;

“‘And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.

“‘And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places.

“‘And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;

“‘And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:

“‘For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?’”

He shut the book, and for a while there was silence. De Jones took off his glasses and wiped them pensively with his handkerchief; then quoted softly:

“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’”

Frank waved away the flies. “If I were God I would consign all flies to the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. For don’t tell me that they know not what they do!”

Eva looked at him reproachfully. “You are so stupid, darling. You wave and shout at the flies.”

“But they do go away when I shout.”

“It’s not because you shout, but because you wave that they go away.”

“H’m, that’s possible. I never thought of that. I admit I am impractical.”

The secret of a successful picnic, in view of its invariable discomfort, is that it should be as short as possible. They--all of them towny people--discovered this very soon and rose as if by mutual consent.

“You speak French,” said Ottercove to Frank. “Go and take these glasses back to the old woman on the hill and tell her she can have all the sandwiches and fruit and champagne--”

“Bottles,” qualified de Jones.

“Bottles--all we’ve left, in fact.”

Frank did as he was bid.

They stepped into the hired Rolls-Royce, and as they drove away, this time in the direction of Cannes, on the hill-side, by the side of an old donkey, stood an old wrinkled woman who looked in their direction till they were lost to sight.

In the depth of the car, three men and a girl leaned back as far as it is possible for three men and a girl to do so in a car. Lord Ottercove was dozing, Eva gently playing the ukulele.

“I didn’t know you played the ukulele,” Frank remarked.

“There are things, Ferdinand, you do not know,” she said.

Ottercove opened one eye. “You are right, sweetie,” he said. “He is no good: I’m the man for you.”

“‘I’m the man! I’m the man!’ This is from _Candida_,” chimed in de Jones. “Let me quote, on my behalf, from the same work: ‘All the love in the world is waiting to speak: but it is shy--shy--shy....’”

“Eva,” said Frank. “Eva....”

“What?”

“Eyes as blue as the Mediterranean....”

“Now, Eva, you must choose,” said Ottercove, “between this decrepit Genius of the Untried who claims he can push up the grass but is only fit to push up the daisies; the dubious heir to a, if possible, more dubious throne; and a half-demented peer. Now come on, my love, and choose your prize. Spot the winner.”

Eva smiled and played the ukulele dreamily. And the music seemed to say, Why choose? when you are snug, at ease, sprawling in the depth of a great car rushing softly by the edge of the blue sea.