“I want to hire a car, please.  It must be round here in half an hour, sharp.”

“I will attend to the matter myself,” said the manager humbly.

The car kept the rendezvous, and Mr. Prohack inspected Frinton from the car.  He admired the magnificent reserve of Frinton, which was the most English place he had ever seen.  The houses gave nothing away; the shivering shopping ladies in the streets gave nothing away; and certainly the shops gave nothing away.  The newspaper placards announced what seemed to be equivalent to the end of the existing social order; but Frinton apparently did not blench nor tremble; it went calmly and powerfully forward into the day (which was Saturday), relying upon the great British axiom:  “To ignore is to destroy.”  It ignored the end of the existing social order, and lo! there was no end.  Up and down various long and infinitely correct avenues of sheltered homes drove Mr. Prohack, and was everywhere baffled in his human desire to meet Frinton half-way.  He stopped the car at the Post Office and telegraphed to his wife:  “No strawberry jam in this city.  Love.  Arthur.”  The girl behind the counter said:  “One and a penny, please,” and looked hard at him.  Five minutes later he returned to the Post Office and telegraphed to his wife:  “Omitted to say in previous telegram that Frinton is the greatest expression of Anglo-Saxon character I have ever encountered.  Love.  Arthur.”  The girl behind the counter said:  “Two and three, please,” stared harder at him, and blushed.  Perceiving the blush, Mr. Prohack at once despatched a third telegram to his wife:  “But it has charming weaknesses.  Love.  Arthur.”  Extraordinarily happy and gay, he drove out of Frinton to see the remainder of North East Essex in the enheartening east wind.

In the evening he fell asleep in the lounge while waiting for dinner, having dressed a great deal too soon and being a great deal too full of east wind.  When he woke up he noticed a different atmosphere in the hotel.  Youth and brightness had entered it.  The lounge had vivacity and expectation; and Mr. Prohack learned that Saturday night was gala, with a dance and special bridge.  Not even the news that the star-guest of the hotel, Lord Partick, was suddenly indisposed and confined to his room could dash the new optimism of the place.

At dinner the manager walked around the little tables and gorgeously babbled with diners about the sportive feats of the day.  And Mr. Prohack, seeing that his own turn was coming, began to feel as if he was on board a ship.  He feared the worst and the worst came.

“Perhaps you’d like to make a fourth at bridge.  If so—­” said the manager jollily.  “Or perhaps you dance.  If so—­”

Mr. Prohack shut his eyes and gave forth vague affirmatives.