Coves shook his head sympathetically.

  “Also, M. Coves, where are the ortolans? I order them the day before yesterday and they have not arrive’. What am I to do?” Fougasse extended his hands expressively. As a matter of fact, Coves, discovering the price of a two-ounce ortolan, and fearing waste if the dish proved unpopular, had deleted the item.

  “Perhaps we could have a few nice squabs, instead,” suggested Coves hopefully. “I really don’t think the ortolans would go over well. They’re so expensive — and they might go to waste.”

  “Waste?” scoffed Fougasse. “Nonsense! If no one else, I, Fougasse, would eat them, every one!” Fougasse stared blankly across the lobby, massaging his supple face. “Ah tiens! There is no doubt an oversight. Tonight I will repeat the demand, and the ortolans will surely arrive at once.”

  Coves made a mental note to intercept the order. Fougasse leaned upon the desk. “M. Coves, I note that under the lobby exists a considerable aperture.”

  “Oh yes. That’s where the slope falls away underneath.”

  “I have investigated,” announced Fougasse. “I find it cool, dark, well-aired but not draughty. In short, I fancy the region would provide a magnificent cheesery.”

  “‘Cheesery’?”

  “Cheesery? Is not that the expression? Where one makes cheese? No matter. We set aside the curd, mingling therein a culture found only at Montdembois on the Loire. And in not too long a time you shall smack your lips over a most savory cheese.”

  “Of course, Mr. Fougasse, do whatever you like. Er, there won’t be any smell?”

  “Smell? Pah! Fragrance, one should say! However, Monsieur, do not fear; the odor emanates horizontally, never in a vertical mode — a peculiarity of the Montdembois.”

  “I see,” said Coves. “Well certainly, Mr. Fougasse, go right ahead.”

  Fougasse returned to the kitchen, and Coves returned to his figures. A tendril of musky redolence pulled at his nostrils like a crochet hook. Coves looked up. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Sipe.”

  The regal divorcée approached the desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Coves. Tell me, have you seen Mr. Lissacutt anywhere?”

  “Why no, Mrs. Sipe, I haven’t.”

  The lady shook her head, frowning. “How infinitely tiresome! He promised to take me to the summit of the hill.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Coves,” said the young man who had just wandered into the lobby — a pleasant-looking chap with tousled brown hair and serious blue eyes.

  “Why hello, Mr. Green,” said Coves cordially. “Glad to see you. Er — Mrs. Sipe, Mr. Green.”

  “How do you do?” said Milo.

  “Mr. Green lives in the house on the crag,” explained Coves.

  Mrs. Sipe’s manner became a degree less impersonal. “Your view must be simply breath-taking, Mr. Green.” She reached into her handbag for her gold cigarette case.

  “Excuse me,” said Milo. “Have one of mine.”

  “No, thank you.” Mrs. Sipe favored him with a quick smile. “I smoke nothing but my own brand. They’re made by a little shop I discovered in Istanbul.” She placed the ivory cylinder to her lips, and Coves held up a match.

  Mrs. Sipe turned, leaned her elegant back against the desk, and surveyed the lobby. “Well, it’s evident that I am abandoned.” She turned Coves an arch glance. “When you see Mr. Lissacutt, reprimand him without mercy … And the hillside seems so pleasant this morning.”

  “I’d be glad to be of assistance,” said Milo.

  “Mr. Green, you’re very kind! I’m simply aching to wander around the island — but of course I couldn’t impose upon you …”

  “Why not?” asked Milo. “When would you like to go?”

  “I’ll just run up, slip into a pair of walking shoes and be right back.” She smiled glowingly at Coves, walked across the lobby, hips oscillating in an ample, fluid orbit.

  “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Green,” said Coves. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your walk. Mrs. Sipe is a cultured woman, very charming — a real woman of the world.” Coves lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “She had a breakdown during her last divorce; that’s why she’s here, resting.”

  Mrs. Sipe returned in her walking costume — lavender-gray skirt, with a darker lavender fur-trimmed jacket. She carried a gay orange scarf, printed with red Eiffel towers and French phrases, and wore low-heeled brown alligator brogues.

  “Now, Mr. Green, shall we start?”

  It was indeed a pleasant morning, and they slowly mounted the central ridge, Mrs. Sipe turning now and again to remark at the beauty of the vista, declaring that it reminded her of nothing more than the Dalmatian coast near Spalato.

  They reached the summit. A man sitting on a rock nearby with a pair of binoculars in his lap arose. It was Mortimer Archer, dapper in tweed trousers, a sports jacket of British cut, a flannel cap.

  “Good morning,” said Archer, placing the binoculars in their case. “Taking the air, eh, Green? Haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you for several weeks.”

  “No,” Milo admitted, “I’ve been keeping close to home. Mrs. Sipe, this is Mr. Archer. Mr. Archer, Mrs. Sipe.”

  “And you’re another lucky inhabitant of the island?” asked Mrs. Sipe.

  Mr. Archer nodded. “My house is over the hill, down the slope. I doubt if you can see it from here. Just a modest little place — more studio than anything else.”

  “Ah,” cried Mrs. Sipe. “I thought so! The moment I saw you I said ‘artist’. What is your medium, Mr. Archer? Or let me guess … Now I should say,” she tapped her chin with a fingernail, “oils. Yes, you’re definitely the type. Now tell me I’m right.”

  Archer laughingly shook his head. “I’m afraid not. At least not at the moment. I’ve given up oils; I’m concentrating on photography.”

  “How interesting!” murmured Mrs. Sipe. “I’d love to see your work. I’m sure that if your studies reflect this Arcadian environment, they must be great things.”

  “Nature is the true artist,” said Archer modestly. “I merely find its beauties, capture the impression on film.”

  “But,” Mrs. Sipe pointed out, “that is the art — the seeing, the perceiving of the composition. The oil painter might in the same way deprecate his art, declaring that the colors were there, all he did was to place them on the canvas. No, Mr. Archer, art is art, no matter what the medium.”

  Archer shrugged. “I hope you won’t change your mind when you’ve seen my work.”

  Mrs. Sipe shook her finger. “Mr. Archer, your modesty must be affected. But tell me, who else shares the island with you and Mr. Green and Mr. Coves?”

  “Miss Pickett runs a school for young ladies. Over the hill there’s Mr. Ottenbright, a San Francisco attorney, and a rather eccentric old character, Ike O’Rourke, who runs what he calls a ‘whale farm’.”

  “A ‘whale farm’?”

  “Yes, he’s captured a number of whales, though what he intends to do with them I’m sure I don’t know. I think that if we walk over this way, we might actually be able to look down at this ‘whale farm’.”

  “How utterly fascinating!” exclaimed Mrs. Sipe.

  They crossed the little tableland, and Archer halted. “Let’s see — this ravine runs down into the cove where Ike pens his whales.” He indicated the gully below them, where a little stream raced down to the ocean.

  Chatting gaily, the three started down the ravine. “’Hoy!” came a cry to their left. “Hold up, thar!”

  “Why, it’s Ike himself,” Archer whispered to Mrs. Sipe. “You’ll be amused.”

  Ike came sauntering down from the height to their left. As usual, he wore his brown corduroy trousers, with underwear displayed leadenly to the sight of all.

  “My word,” whispered Mrs. Sipe, “what a quaint old fellow! I marvel at those whiskers! But isn’t he a little — well, a little —”

  “Oh, entirely,” whispered Archer.

  “Whereabouts you three headin’?” called Ike.

  “We were trying to glimpse your famous whale farm, Mr. O’Rourke,” replied Archer. “Excuse me, Mrs. Sipe, may I present Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “Call me Ike, lady.” He turned back to Archer. “I’m just lookin’ around, maybe to put signs up: ‘No Trespassing, Beware of Shotgun’.”

  “What on earth for?” gasped Mrs. Sipe. “Do sight-seers disturb your whales?”

  “I don’t know as you’d call ’em sight-seers, lady. There’s a lot of money in them whales. I aim to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. What I really needs is an assistant.” He inspected Mrs. Sipe appraisingly, stepped to the side for a better view of her silhouette.

  “Say, lady,” declared Ike, “dang if you ain’t a right spankin’ smart woman.”

  Archer stiffened. “Why, really, Mr. O’Rourke —”

  Ike ignored him. “You married, lady?”

  “I am not,” was the cold reply.

  “You any hand at grindin’ up pemmican?”

  “Certainly not!” declared Mrs. Sipe.

  “Ever cure any hides?”

  “I’m afraid we must be going,” said Mrs. Sipe frigidly. “Good day, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  “Wait now, don’t be huffy,” said Ike. “I was just askin’. Anyways, it’s easy to learn.”

  “What is that peculiar odor?” inquired Mrs. Sipe of Milo. “It’s like a mixture of …” Delicately she groped for words; and with equal restraint Milo refrained from pointing out that the wind blew from Ike.

  “Well, we must be leaving,” said Mrs. Sipe. “I’m dreadfully thirsty.” She glanced at the little stream running past their feet down the ravine. “I wonder if that water is good to drink?”

  “Why, it certainly is,” said Ike affably. “Here, I’ve got a little tin cup. I’ll rinse it out, and in a minute you’ll have the coolest, freshest drink of your life.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a collapsible aluminum cup, turned his back, filled the cup, handed it to Mrs. Sipe.

  “Wonderful!” declared the divorcée. “Nothing is as delicious as spring water!”

  “Go ahead,” said Ike. “Drink it all. Water’s sweet and cold.” He turned, glared at Archer and Milo. “You two stay back there till after the lady drinks. You’ll muddy the water. Mind now!” He scowled so fiercely that Milo and Archer drew back.

  “Delicious,” murmured Mrs. Sipe, drinking. “Ah …” She stood rigid, quivering.

  Ike said, “Still thirsty, dearie?” A grin moved his whiskers.

  “No — thank you,” said Mrs. Sipe, in a faraway voice.

  “Now then, dearie, here’s old Ike, who’s looking for a good woman —”

  And the astounded Archer and Milo heard Mrs. Sipe say, “But darling, I’m here, you know.”

  “I reckon you’ll do all right,” said Ike, and Mrs. Sipe flung herself into his arms.

  “What on earth —” sputtered Archer.

  “You two git,” said Lonesome Ike. “Me and the little lady want to be alone.”

  “Darling,” Mrs. Sipe turned to Ike, “it’s so strange — I’ve never realized what a helpless creature I am! Why, I don’t even know how to cook pemmican!”

  “You don’t cook it,” said Ike. “You sucks it. Jerky, you chews on it. It’s cornmeal you cooks.”

  “But I’ve found you, and all that will be changed. I felt it in my bones the minute I saw you! Oh, I’ve never been so thrilled!”

  “Mrs. Sipe,” inquired Milo in alarm, “are you all right? Can I —”

  “Look here, young fellow,” said Ike good-naturedly, “you leave the lady be. She’s made up her mind —”

  “Oh, indeed I have,” sighed Mrs. Sipe.

  “Would you like a drink of cold water?” Milo asked anxiously.

  “Enough’s enough,” said Ike. “Leave well enough alone.” He turned to Mrs. Sipe. “Well, come on, old lady, let’s get on home. I’ll put on a shirt, maybe wash up a leetle, and we’ll run across to town and git hitched up proper.”

  “Darling!” breathed Mrs. Sipe.

  “But Mrs. Sipe,” cried Milo as she turned to go, “do you know what you’re doing?”

  Mrs. Sipe’s haughty stare chilled Milo. “Mr. Green, you forget your manners.” She turned her elegant back, hooked her arm through that of Ike, and they swept off down the ravine.

  Milo started after them, then halted, staring.

  “Interesting episode,” murmured Archer, chewing at his mustache.

  “What shall I tell Coves?”

  Archer shrugged. “Tell him that Ike and Mrs. Sipe met, and decided to be married.”

  “Well,” said Milo dubiously, “inasmuch as that, broadly speaking, is exactly what happened …”

  Chapter X

  Shortly after one o’clock. The guests, rendered torpid by Fougasse’s craft, sat in various languid poses along the terrace. Within, Coves made entries in his ledger.

  A figure entered the lobby and moved slowly to the magazine rack, became absorbed in the titles. Coves, with his deerlike sensitivity to psychic tension, glanced up, then, laying aside his pen, hurried across the lobby. Rexie marched closely at his heels.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Green,” said Coves.

  “Hello, Mr. Coves.”

  “I hope you had a nice stroll?”

  “Very.”

  “I imagine Mrs. Sipe enjoyed herself?”

  “Yes … I suppose you’d say she did … That was my impression, at least.”

  “I didn’t see her come in. She’s out on the terrace, I presume?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Milo. “The fact is …” His voice trailed off.

  “Where is Mrs. Sipe, Mr. Green?”

  “Well,” said Milo, “the fact is, we met Mr. Archer and Mr. O’Rourke at the top of the hill. We talked for a while; then Mrs. Sipe and Mr. O’Rourke decided that they wanted to be married, and so Mr. Archer and I —” he carefully inspected his fingertips “— left them alone, and I came back to tell you that she’ll probably be moving out.”

  As Coves tottered backward, he stepped on Rexie’s tail. Rexie screeched and fled. Coves sank into a chair. Step by step, Milo explained the morning’s events.

  For a considerable period Rexie brooded, then deciding that a walk through the meadow would relieve his melancholy, he rose to his feet. The lobby was quiet. Milo had left for his home on the crag, Coves had retired to his room. Rexie ran out the French doors, across the terrace, around the building, and into the grass.

  The grass was delightful, full of small soothing noises when the wind blew, and Rexie sauntered back and forth along the sweet-smelling aisles. The sunlight shone through the bladed screen, threw a tiger pattern on Rexie’s fur … Ah! The scent of mouse? To be sure, and there he ran, scuttling ahead! Rexie leapt forward gracefully. Look, the foolish creature was leaving the grass, running toward the terrace! An addled mouse indeed! Rexie increased his pace. The mouse flung himself around the corner of the terrace, escaping Rexie by an inch. Rexie gathered himself, dashed around the corner … He dug his claws into the red flagstones; they scraped as he frantically braked himself. The mouse had become a fiend, a monster! Rexie vented an appalling scream and fled madly for the darkest, most secret recesses under the hotel.

  Mr. Craintree Bezemer, the socialite explorer, loved to excite sensation. To this end he could always rely upon the presence of his pet baboon, past whom Rexie’s mouse had darted. When he answered questions, Mr. Bezemer practiced a careful modesty.

  “Yes, Banjo is the gift of Batongo, chief of the Pulu Tribe — darkest, deepest Africa, of course. I had an opportunity to do him a trifling service, though I doubt if the lion would have caught him in any event. And he really made a tremendous pother over the fact that I only had my light revolver … Anyway, he insisted that I take Banjo. And rather than offend the old blighter, I took him. We’ve become quite attached. Quite an intelligent beast …”

  Miss Pickett’s academy always had been prosperous. Unlike Mr. Coves, she ran her establishment with Doric austerity. Her creed was that simple food and sober clothing made for a harder fiber of woman, and in most cases the parents of her pupils agreed. “Daughter is, of course, a dear sweet thing,” they would say, “but she’s had so much all her life that a little simplicity and discipline will do wonders for her.”

  These were almost the exact words used by Mrs. Cheabrough in connection with a letter from Madeline.

  Mummy, darling,

  Life goes on as usual, and I wish you’d get me away from here. Do you think I’m training for one of those convents where the nuns wear burlap and eat nothing but turnips? What utter stark want! For breakfast, oatmeal and eggs, and toast. For lunch, creamed tuna and spinach. For dinner, lima beans and hash. Dessert? What’s that? Miss Pickett thinks sweet stuff is bad for girls. And we don’t get any spending money as a result of that awful agreement you made with Miss Pickett.

  (Miss Pickett, at the beginning of the term, requested that no spending money be provided the students, this to prevent indulgence in sweets, and also to discourage the formation of cliques.)

  So here we sit, me with my tongue down to my collarbone for a milkshake, and what do I get? Iced tea. I’m practically desperate. One thing about Miss Pickett’s system, it certainly develops resourcefulness, and J. B. Carr and Skippy Ballard and I have developed a source of revenue. It should keep us in as much unwholesome candy and cigarettes as the heart would desire.

  Everybody’s afraid of Miss Pickett. Not that she does anything mean; it’s just her manner. She has a Presence, no question as to that. She glides around like a wraith, but the skin at the back of your neck always lets you know when she’s near. Her niece, Celia Marlowe, is a darling, however. She’s exquisitely lovely — everybody’s jealous of her — but she’s moody. I think Miss Pickett suppresses her. Or else she’s in love. Or both. If one of the last two, everybody knows who it is: Milo Green, who has a nice dreamy look to him. He lives in that house up on top the hill. He’s a writer or something. I’d like to land him myself.