When I came down from breakfast I found the two men sitting over a fire.
I accused them of “frowsting,” and carried them out to the garden, where
Kameneff restarted his unconcluded tale of the Revolution, until we
could bear the cold no more, so he finished it indoors in front of the
fire. It is a marvellous narrative, pray God I may never forget it.
At 2.30, the afternoon having mended, we started off in an open car for
the south of the island. On a hill overlooking the sea, with a lonely
beach, we stopped, and made a long arduous descent. It was heavenly on
the undulating beach of tiny rounded pebbles by the sea edge. Sydney and
I paddled and Kameneff, who watched us, became thoroughly laughing and
happy. When Sydney and I sat down on the beach and buried our feet in
the pebbles, Kameneff began to write verses to me on the back of a five
pound note.
I don’t know what happened to the bank note, but Kameneff wrote four
lines, and Sydney the other four, in French. Kameneff likened me to
Venus, but Sydney was flippant, and said that the part of me that he
liked best was my feet!
The scenery and the climb recalled Capri, but a faded Capri, without
colour. Nevertheless, one recalled the feeling of joy that one had at
Capri, and Kameneff was much impressed by the beauty and the peace of
it, and said how distant politics seemed, and how non-existent Mr. Lloyd
George!
After awhile we regretfully went on, stopping only for a tea-picnic on a
common by a lonely road.