"Well," I said at last, "isn't that the place of your dreams? It's all
practically as you described it last night, and you will observe that it's
by no means overcrowded."
"But what objectionable children!" said Suzanne. "I shouldn't at all care
for Barbara to mix with them; and jelly-fish sting. Besides, that boat
doesn't look at all safe, and the man's a bounder in every sense of the
word. What's this other place?"
I was disappointed, and considered Suzanne's criticism superficial in the
extreme. The next pictures showed an emerald sea and pink shore, two piers,
a flock of aeroplanes, and a structure that combined the characteristic
features of the Eiffel Tower and the Albert Memorial. One suspected a herd
of minstrels in the distance, but here again the beach was remarkably and
invitingly uncongested. A solitary barefooted maiden communing with a
crustacean rather caught my fancy, but it didn't need the angle of
Suzanne's nose to tell me that "Puddlesey for Pleasure" was a wash-out;
frankly, it was too good to believe that all the holiday-makers but one
were content to patronise either the piers or the aeroplanes or the hidden
attractions of the architectural outrage, and to leave the beach so
desirably vacant.
We passed over in eloquent silence a couple of lurid _affiches_ which
declared that "Exhampton Is So Exhilarating" (a middle-aged person in
side-whiskers and a purple bathing-suit attempting to drown his unfortunate
wife), and that "Rooksea Will Restore the Roses" (a fragile young woman in
a deck-chair being nourished out of a box of chocolates by a sentimental
ass whose attire proclaimed him a member of the local concert party). The
next scene to engage our attention was much more simple in its appeal and
striking in its effect. The sea was neither so blatantly blue nor so
vividly green as the other seas had been; the beach was but normally
sandy-hued, and there was a delicious little fellow, clad in nothing much
except seaweed, who was splashing himself with great seriousness in the
middle of a shining pool. Again that amazing absence of the seaside crowd;
but somehow or other this picture seemed to ring true. There were no piers
or other "attractions," and to souls that shunned such delights the _aura_
of the place was extremely sympathetic, A single glance sufficed to
determine us both.
"Quick!" said Suzanne with a catch in her breath. "What's the place
called?"
Alas! where the legend should have appeared was an ugly gap. The picture
had been badly torn in its most vital part, and nothing was there to reveal
the identity of that magic spot where that delightfully real and really
delightful baby boy had been caught by the camera of the publicity agent.
Hurriedly we sought the Inquiry Bureau, but no answer could be obtained to
Suzanne's incoherent questionings. We have since written to various
agencies, but in vain; nor, strangely enough, in spite of much searching,
have we ever seen the poster exhibited anywhere else.
Suzanne, however, who has not given up her sanguine interest in the sport
of bull-baiting, is still intent on taking time by the horns and getting in
before the rush. She has just compiled a list of "likely" places (selected
for the most part because she likes the sound of their names), to which we
are apparently to pay week-end visits of exploration. I have calculated
that long before we come to the end of these expeditions the summer--if
any--will be over. Whether we shall ever find the land of our hearts'
desire is, as the bull himself said, a toss-up.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Shopman._ "AMMONIA? AY, I HAE AMMONIA, BUT THE STOPPER'S
OOT AN' THE GUIDNESS GANE."
_Customer._ "WELL, HAVE YOU BENZINE?"
_Shopman._ "BENZINE? AY, I HAE BENZINE, BUT THE STOPPER'S IN AN' I CANNA
GET IT OOT."]
* * * * *