The Holiday Round

“We will now bathe,” said a voice at the back of my neck. I gave a grunt and went on with my dream. It was a jolly dream, and nobody got up early in it. “We will now bathe,” repeated Archie. “Go away,” I said distinctly. Archie sat down on my knees and put his damp towel on my face. “When my wife and I took this commodious residence for six weeks,” he said, “and engaged the sea at great expense to come up to its doors twice a day, it was on the distinct understanding that our guests should plunge into it punctually at seven o’clock every morning.” “Don’t be silly, it’s about three now. And I wish you’d get off my knees.” “It’s a quarter-past seven.” “Then there you are, we’ve missed it. Well, we must see what we can do for you to-morrow. Good-night.” Archie pulled all the clothes off me and walked with them to the window. “Jove, what a day!” he said. “And can’t you smell the sea?” “I can. Let that suffice. I say, what’s happened to my blanket? I must have swallowed it in my sleep.” “Where’s his sponge?” I heard him murmuring to himself as he came away from the window.