The season at Pau was approaching the end of its course. Already villas and flats and servants were being engaged for the winter to come. We had been asked definitely whether we proposed to return and, if so, whether we wished again to occupy the excellent villa we had. Not knowing what answer to make to the first question, we had passed to the second – somewhat illogically. The second had proved more heatedly disputable than the first. Finally Jill had looked up from a letter to Piers and put in her oar with a splash. “The villa’s all right,” she announced. “Everyone says it’s the best, and so should we, if we didn’t live in it. It’s what’s inside that’s so awful. Even one decent sofa would make all the difference.” In silence we pondered her words. At length — “I confess,” said Berry, “that the idea of having a few chairs about in which you can sit continuously for ten minutes, not so much in comfort as without fear of contracting a bed-sore or necrosis of the coccyx, appeals to me.
