“Oh come on,” said Winnie.
They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea.
Winnie threw some stones.
The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them.
“Why don't you bathe?” asked Winnie.
“Far too cold.”
“But they're bathing.
I want to.”
“You must ask your mother.”
“I believe you're afraid.
Can you swim?”
“Yes.”
“Well why don't you?
Bet you can't.”
“All right.
I can't.”
“Then why did you say you could.
Fibber.”
They walked along the shingle.
Winnie slithered about astride a backwater.
“Now I'm all wet,” she said.
“Better come back and change.”
“It feels horrible.
Let's go and have breakfast.”
The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning.
It took a long time before anything could be got ready.
There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance.
She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing.
After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and, himself, smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers.
Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop.
“We missed you last night,” he said.
“We went to a party.”
“You shouldn't have done that — not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it.
Have you had your breakfast?”
“Yes, in the dining room with Winnie.”
“But, Mr. Last, what are you thinking of?
You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants.”
“Well, I didn't like to wake Milly.”
“She's paid for it, isn't she?
Come, come, Mr. Last, this won't do at all.
You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more.”
“All right,” said Tony. “I'll have breakfast again.”
“In bed mind.”
“In bed.”
And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms.
Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.
“She woke up once and then turned over.
Do get her to come out.
I want to go on the pier.”
“Milly,” said Tony firmly. “Milly.”