was something in that luminous wonderfulness that touched one’s brain and made one feel a little lightheaded.
One couple had gone to London; the other had gone to the Bungalow village at Bone Cliff. Where, I wondered, was Bone Cliff?
I came upon my wooden-legged man at the top of his steps.
“Hullo,” said I.
He pointed seaward with his pipe, his silver ring shone in the sky light.
“Rum,” he said.
“What is?”’ I asked.
“Search-lights! Smoke! Ships going north! If it wasn’t for this blasted Milky Way gone green up there, we might see.”
He was too intent to heed my questions for a time. Then he vouchsafed over his shoulder———
“Know Bungalow village?—rather. Artis’ and such. Nice goings on! Mixed bathing—something scandalous. Yes.”
“But where is it?” I said, suddenly exasperated.
“There!” he said. “What’s that flicker? A gunflash—or I’m a lost soul!”
“You'd hear,” I said, “long before it was near enough to see a flash.”
He didn’t answer. Only by making it clear I would distract him until he told me what I wanted to know could I get him to turn from his absorbed contemplation of that phantom dance between the sea rim and the shine. Indeed I gripped his arm and shook him. Then he turned upon me cursing.
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