The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE

  In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying themorning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for theirhealth, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring,and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close toMonte Carlo.

  None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was therebecause, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable.

  What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go overNiagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with askipping-rope would be equally beneficial to his liver. No; in ninecases out of ten he does it to prove to his friends and relations thathe is not the mild, steady-going person they have always thought him.Observe the music-hall acrobat as he prepares to swing from the roof byhis eyelids. His gaze sweeps the house. 'It isn't true,' it seems tosay. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'

  It was so with George Balmer.

  In London at the present moment there exist some thousands ofrespectable, neatly-dressed, mechanical, unenterprising young men,employed at modest salaries by various banks, corporations, stores,shops, and business firms. They are put to work when young, and theystay put. They are mussels. Each has his special place on the rock, andremains glued to it all his life.

  To these thousands George Albert Balmer belonged. He differed in nodetail from the rest of the great army. He was as respectable, asneatly-dressed, as mechanical, and as unenterprising. His life wasbounded, east, west, north, and south, by the Planet Insurance Company,which employed him; and that there were other ways in which a man mightfulfil himself than by giving daily imitations behind a counter of amechanical figure walking in its sleep had never seriously crossed hismind.

  On George, at the age of twenty-four, there descended, out of a dearsky, a legacy of a thousand pounds.

  Physically, he remained unchanged beneath the shock. No trace of hauteurcrept into his bearing. When the head of his department, calling hisattention to a technical flaw in his work of the previous afternoon,addressed him as 'Here, you--young what's-your-confounded-name!' hedid not point out that this was no way to speak to a gentleman ofproperty. You would have said that the sudden smile of Fortune hadfailed to unsettle him.

  But all the while his mind, knocked head over heels, was lying in alimp heap, wondering what had struck it.

  To him, in his dazed state, came Harold Flower. Harold, messenger to thePlanet Insurance Company and one of the most assiduous money-borrowersin London, had listened to the office gossip about the legacy as if tothe strains of some grand, sweet anthem. He was a bibulous individualof uncertain age, who, in the intervals of creeping about his duties,kept an eye open for possible additions to his staff of creditors. Mostof the clerks at the Planet had been laid under contribution by him intheir time, for Harold had a way with him that was good for threepenceany pay-day, and it seemed to him that things had come to a sorry passif he could not extract something special from Plutocrat Balmer in hishour of rejoicing.

  Throughout the day he shadowed George, and, shortly before closing-time,backed him into a corner, tapped him on the chest, and requested thetemporary loan of a sovereign.

  In the same breath he told him that he was a gentleman, that amessenger's life was practically that of a blanky slave, and that ayoung man of spirit who wished to add to his already large fortunewould have a bit on Giant Gooseberry for the City and Suburban. He thenpaused for a reply.

  Now, all through the day George had been assailed by a steady stream ofdetermined ear-biters. Again and again he had been staked out as anore-producing claim by men whom it would have been impolitic to rebuff.He was tired of lending, and in a mood to resent unauthorized demands.Harold Flower's struck him as particularly unauthorized. He said so.

  It took some little time to convince Mr Flower that he really meant it,but, realizing at last the grim truth, he drew a long breath and spoke.

  'Ho!' he said. 'Afraid you can't spare it, can't you? A gentleman comesand asks you with tack and civility for a temp'y loan of about 'arfnothing, and all you do is to curse and swear at him. Do you know whatI call you--you and your thousand quid? A tuppenny millionaire, that'swhat I call you. Keep your blooming money. That's all I ask._Keep_ it. Much good you'll get out of it. I know your sort.You'll never have any pleasure of it. Not you. You're the careful sort.You'll put it into Consols, _you_ will, and draw your three-ha'pencea year. Money wasn't meant for your kind. It don't _mean_ nothingto you. You ain't got the go in you to appreciate it. A vegetable--that'sall you are. A blanky little vegetable. A blanky little gor-blimeyvegetable. I seen turnips with more spirit in 'em that what you've got.And Brussels sprouts. Yes, _and_ parsnips.'

  It is difficult to walk away with dignity when a man with a hoarsevoice and a watery eye is comparing you to your disadvantage with aparsnip, and George did not come anywhere near achieving the feat. Buthe extricated himself somehow, and went home brooding.

  Mr Flower's remarks rankled particularly because it so happened thatConsols were the identical investment on which he had decided. HisUncle Robert, with whom he lived as a paying guest, had stronglyadvocated them. Also they had suggested themselves to himindependently.

  But Harold Flower's words gave him pause. They made him think. For twoweeks and some days he thought, flushing uncomfortably whenever he metthat watery but contemptuous eye. And then came the day of his annualvacation, and with it inspiration. He sought out the messenger, whomtill now he had carefully avoided.

  'Er--Flower,' he said.

  'Me lord?'

  'I am taking my holiday tomorrow. Will you forward my letters? I willwire you the address. I have not settled on my hotel yet. I am poppingover'--he paused--'I am popping over,' he resumed, carelessly, 'toMonte.'

  'To who?' inquired Mr Flower.

  'To Monte. Monte Carlo, you know.'

  Mr Flower blinked twice rapidly, then pulled himself together.

  'Yus, I _don't_ think!' he said.

  And that settled it.

  The George who strolled that pleasant morning on the Promenade desStrangers differed both externally and internally from the George whohad fallen out with Harold Flower in the offices of the PlanetInsurance Company. For a day after his arrival he had clung to the garbof middle-class England. On the second he had discovered that this wasunpleasantly warm and, worse, conspicuous. At the Casino Municipalethat evening he had observed a man wearing an arrangement in brightyellow velvet without attracting attention. The sight had impressedhim. Next morning he had emerged from his hotel in a flannel suit solight that it had been unanimously condemned as impossible by his UncleRobert, his Aunt Louisa, his Cousins Percy, Eva, and Geraldine, and hisAunt Louisa's mother, and at a shop in the Rue Lasalle had spent twentyfrancs on a Homburg hat. And Roville had taken it without blinking.

  Internally his alteration had been even more considerable. Roville wasnot Monte Carlo (in which gay spot he had remained only long enough tosend a picture post-card to Harold Flower before retiring down thecoast to find something cheaper), but it had been a revelation to him.For the first time in his life he was seeing colour, and it intoxicatedhim. The silky blueness of the sea was startling. The pure white of thegreat hotels along the promenade and the Casino Municipale fascinatedhim. He was dazzled. At the Casino the pillars were crimson and cream,the tables sky-blue and pink. Seated on a green-and-white striped chairhe watched a _revue_, of which from start to finish he understoodbut one word--'out', to wit--absorbed in the doings of a red-moustachedgentleman in blue who wrangled in rapid French with a black-moustachedgentleman in yellow, while a snow-white _commere_ and a _compere_in a mauve flannel suit looked on at the brawl.

  It was during that evening that there flitted across his mind the firstsuspicion he had ever had that his Uncle Robert's mental outlook was alittle limited.

  And now, as he paced the promenade, watching the stir and bustle of thecrowd, he definitely condemned his absent relative as a narrow-mindedchum
p.

  If the brown boots which he had polished so assiduously in his bedroomthat morning with the inside of a banana-skin, and which now gleamedfor the first time on his feet, had a fault, it was that they were ashade tight. To promenade with the gay crowd, therefore, for any lengthof time was injudicious; and George, warned by a red-hot shootingsensation that the moment had arrived for rest, sank down gracefully ona seat, to rise at once on discovering that between him and it wassomething oblong with sharp corners.

  It was a book--a fat new novel. George drew it out and inspected it.There was a name inside--Julia Waveney.

  George, from boyhood up, had been raised in that school of thoughtwhose watchword is 'Findings are keepings', and, having ascertainedthat there was no address attached to the name, he was on the point, Iregret to say, of pouching the volume, which already he looked upon ashis own, when a figure detached itself from the crowd, and he foundhimself gazing into a pair of grey and, to his startled conscience,accusing eyes.

  'Oh, thank you! I was afraid it was lost.'

  She was breathing quickly, and there was a slight flush on her face.She took the book from George's unresisting hand and rewarded him witha smile.

  'I missed it, and I couldn't think where I could have left it. Then Iremembered that I had been sitting here. Thank you so much.'

  She smiled again, turned, and walked away, leaving George to reckon upall the social solecisms he had contrived to commit in the space of asingle moment. He had remained seated, he reminded himself, throughoutthe interview; one. He had not raised his hat, that fascinating Homburgsimply made to be raised with a debonair swish under such conditions;two. Call it three, because he ought to have raised it twice. He hadgaped like a fool; four. And, five, he had not uttered a single word ofacknowledgement in reply to her thanks.

  Five vast bloomers in under a minute! What could she have thought ofhim? The sun ceased to shine. What sort of an utter outsider could shehave considered him? An east wind sprang up. What kind of a Cockneybounder and cad could she have taken him for? The sea turned to an oilygrey; and George, rising, strode back in the direction of his hotel ina mood that made him forget that he had brown boots on at all.

  His mind was active. Several times since he had come to Roville he hadbeen conscious of a sensation which he could not understand, a vague,yearning sensation, a feeling that, splendid as everything was in thisparadise of colour, there was nevertheless something lacking. Now heunderstood. You had to be in love to get the full flavour of thesevivid whites and blues. He was getting it now. His mood of dejectionhad passed swiftly, to be succeeded by an exhilaration such as he hadonly felt once in his life before, about half-way through a dinnergiven to the Planet staff on a princely scale by a retiring generalmanager.

  He was exalted. Nothing seemed impossible to him. He would meet thegirl again on the promenade, he told himself, dashingly renew theacquaintance, show her that he was not the gaping idiot he hadappeared. His imagination donned its seven-league boots. He saw himselfproposing--eloquently--accepted, married, living happily ever after.

  It occurred to him that an excellent first move would be to find outwhere she was staying. He bought a paper and turned to the list ofvisitors. Miss Waveney. Where was it. He ran his eye down the column.

  And then, with a crash, down came his air-castles in hideous ruin.

  'Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee. Lord Frederick Weston. The Countessof Southborne and the Hon. Adelaide Liss. Lady Julia Waveney--'

  He dropped the paper and hobbled on to his hotel. His boots had begunto hurt him again, for he no longer walked on air.

  * * * * *

  At Roville there are several institutions provided by the municipalityfor the purpose of enabling visitors temporarily to kill thought. Chiefamong these is the Casino Municipale, where, for a price, the sorrowfulmay obtain oblivion by means of the ingenious game of _boule_.Disappointed lovers at Roville take to _boule_ as in other placesthey might take to drink. It is a fascinating game. A wooden-faced highpriest flicks a red india-rubber ball into a polished oaken bowl, atthe bottom of which are holes, each bearing a number up to nine. Theball swings round and round like a planet, slows down, stumbles amongthe holes, rests for a moment in the one which you have backed, thenhops into the next one, and you lose. If ever there was a pastimecalculated to place young Adam Cupid in the background, this is it.

  To the _boule_ tables that night fled George with his hopelesspassion. From the instant when he read the fatal words in the paper hehad recognized its hopelessness. All other obstacles he had beenprepared to overcome, but a title--no. He had no illusions as to hisplace in the social scale. The Lady Julias of this world did not marryinsurance clerks, even if their late mother's cousin had left them athousand pounds. That day-dream was definitely ended. It was a thing ofthe past--all over except the heartache.

  By way of a preliminary sip of the waters of Lethe, before beginningthe full draught, he placed a franc on number seven and lost. Anotherfranc on six suffered the same fate. He threw a five-franc cart-wheelrecklessly on evens. It won.

  It was enough. Thrusting his hat on the back of his head and wedginghimself firmly against the table, he settled down to make a night ofit.

  There is nothing like _boule_ for absorbing the mind. It was sometime before George became aware that a hand was prodding him in theribs. He turned, irritated. Immediately behind him, filling thelandscape, were two stout Frenchmen. But, even as he searched his brainfor words that would convey to them in their native tongue hisdisapproval of this jostling, he perceived that they, though stout andin a general way offensive, were in this particular respect guiltless.The prodding hand belonged to somebody invisible behind them. It wassmall and gloved, a woman's hand. It held a five-franc piece.

  Then in a gap, caused by a movement in the crowd, he saw the face ofLady Julia Waveney.

  She smiled at him.

  'On eight, please, would you mind?' he heard her say, and then thecrowd shifted again and she disappeared, leaving him holding the coin,his mind in a whirl.

  The game of _boule_ demands undivided attention from its devotees.To play with a mind full of other matters is a mistake. This mistakeGeorge made. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he flung the coinon the board. She had asked him to place it on eight, and he thoughtthat he had placed it on eight. That, in reality, blinded by emotion,he had placed it on three was a fact which came home to him neitherthen nor later.

  Consequently, when the ball ceased to roll and a sepulchral voicecroaked the news that eight was the winning number, he fixed on thecroupier a gaze that began by being joyful and expectant and ended, thecroupier remaining entirely unresponsive, by being wrathful.

  He leaned towards him.

  'Monsieur,' he said. _'Moi! J'ai jete cinq francs sur huit!'_

  The croupier was a man with a pointed moustache and an air of havingseen all the sorrow and wickedness that there had ever been in theworld. He twisted the former and permitted a faint smile to deepen themelancholy of the latter, but he did not speak.

  George moved to his side. The two stout Frenchmen had strolled off,leaving elbow-room behind them.

  He tapped the croupier on the shoulder.

  'I say,' he said. 'What's the game? _J'ai jete cinq francs surhuit,_ I tell you, _moi!_'

  A forgotten idiom from the days of boyhood and French exercises came tohim.

  '_Moi qui parle_,' he added.

  '_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_,' crooned the croupier, in adetached manner.

  To the normal George, as to most Englishmen of his age, the onecardinal rule in life was at all costs to avoid rendering himselfconspicuous in public. Than George normal, no violet that ever hiditself in a mossy bank could have had a greater distaste for scenes.But tonight he was not normal. Roville and its colour had wrought asort of fever in his brain. _Boule_ had increased it. And love hadcaused it to rage. If this had been entirely his own affair it isprobable that the croupier's frigid calm would ha
ve quelled him and hewould have retired, fermenting but baffled. But it was not his ownaffair. He was fighting the cause of the only girl in the world. Shehad trusted him. Could he fail her? No, he was dashed if he could. Hewould show her what he was made of. His heart swelled within him. Athrill permeated his entire being, starting at his head and running outat his heels. He felt tremendous--a sort of blend of Oliver Cromwell, aBerserk warrior, and Sir Galahad.

  'Monsieur,' he said again. 'Hi! What about it?'

  This time the croupier did speak.

  '_C'est fini_,' he said; and print cannot convey the pensive scornof his voice. It stung George, in his exalted mood, like a blow.Finished, was it? All right, now he would show them. They had asked forit, and now they should get it. How much did it come to? Five francsthe stake had been, and you got seven times your stake. And you gotyour stake back. He was nearly forgetting that. Forty francs in all,then. Two of those gold what-d'you-call'ems, in fact. Very well, then.

  He leaned forward quickly across the croupier, snatched the lid off thegold tray, and removed two louis.

  It is a remarkable fact in life that the scenes which we have rehearsedin our minds never happen as we have pictured them happening. In thepresent case, for instance, it had been George's intention to handlethe subsequent stages of this little dispute with an easy dignity. Hehad proposed, the money obtained, to hand it over to its rightfulowner, raise his hat, and retire with an air, a gallant champion of theoppressed. It was probably about one-sixteenth of a second after hishand had closed on the coins that he realized in the most vivid mannerthat these were not the lines on which the incident was to develop,and, with all his heart, he congratulated himself on having discardedthose brown boots in favour of a worn but roomy pair of gent's Oxfords.

  For a moment there was a pause and a silence of utter astonishment,while the minds of those who had witnessed the affair adjustedthemselves to the marvel, and then the world became full of startingeyes, yelling throats, and clutching hands. From all over the casinofresh units swarmed like bees to swell the crowd at the centre ofthings. Promenaders ceased to promenade, waiters to wait. Elderlygentlemen sprang on to tables.

  But in that momentary pause George had got off the mark. The table atwhich he had been standing was the one nearest to the door, and he hadbeen on the door side of it. As the first eyes began to start, thefirst throats to yell, and the first hands to clutch, he was passingthe counter of the money-changer. He charged the swing-door at fullspeed, and, true to its mission, it swung. He had a vague glimpse fromthe corner of his eye of the hat-and-cloak counter, and then he was inthe square with the cold night breeze blowing on his forehead and thestars winking down from the blue sky.

  A paper-seller on the pavement, ever the man of business, steppedforward and offered him the Paris edition of the _Daily Mail_,and, being in the direct line of transit, shot swiftly into the roadand fell into a heap, while George, shaken but going well, turned offto the left, where there seemed to be rather more darkness thananywhere else.

  And then the casino disgorged the pursuers.

  To George, looking hastily over his shoulder, there seemed a thousandof them. The square rang with their cries. He could not understandthem, but gathered that they were uncomplimentary. At any rate, theystimulated a little man in evening dress strolling along the pavementtowards him, to become suddenly animated and to leap from side to sidewith outstretched arms.

  Panic makes Harlequin three-quarters of us all. For one who had neverplayed Rugby football George handled the situation well. He drew thedefence with a feint to the left, then, swerving to the right, shotpast into the friendly darkness. From behind came the ringing of feetand an evergrowing din.

  It is one of the few compensations a fugitive pursued by a crowd enjoysthat, while he has space for his manoeuvres, those who pursue arehampered by their numbers. In the little regiment that pounded at hisheels it is probable that there were many faster runners than George.On the other hand, there were many slower, and in the early stages ofthe chase these impeded their swifter brethren. At the end of the firsthalf-minute, therefore, George, not sparing himself, had drawn wellahead, and for the first time found leisure for connected thought.

  His brain became preternaturally alert, so that when, rounding acorner, he perceived entering the main road from a side-street in frontof him a small knot of pedestrians, he did not waver, but was seizedwith a keen spasm of presence of mind. Without pausing in his stride,he pointed excitedly before him, and at the same moment shouted thewords, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_'

  His stock of French was small, but it ran to that, and for his purposeit was ample. The French temperament is not stolid. When the Frenchtemperament sees a man running rapidly and pointing into the middledistance and hears him shouting, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_' it doesnot stop to make formal inquiries. It sprints like a mustang. It did sonow, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing downthe road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band ofsix, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven.

  Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping thefirst glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting _vin ordinaire_while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixtureof English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping tochase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely forrefreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had everyconfidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues.

  It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphedover prudence in George's soul that the advisability of lying hid inhis hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediatelyafter breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for theHotel Cercle de la Mediterranee to hand over the two louis to theirowner.

  Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politelygenial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers.

  She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book.

  'Good morning,' he said.

  She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flushwas back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look ofastonishment in the grey eyes.

  He held out the two louis.

  'I couldn't give them to you last night,' he said.

  A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before.

  'I say,' he stammered--'I say, I hope you don't think I had run offwith your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn't give them up, youknow, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis.You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake.I--'

  An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind aparasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly intospeech.

  'Who is this young man?'

  George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of herpresence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother--or aunt. Shelooked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, hischarging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat withher daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justifyhimself.

  'I met your--this young lady'--something told him that was not theproper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?--'at thecasino last night.'

  He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable.Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. Shestared at the girl.

  'So you were gambling at the casino last night?' she said.

  She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.

  'I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financialtransactions with your--friend, I should like to speak to you. You willfind me in my room.'

  George looked after her dumbly.

  The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speakingto herself.

  'I don't care,' she said. 'I'm glad.'

  George was concerned.

  'I'm afraid your mother is
offended, Lady Julia.'

  There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then theylit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly atfirst, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humourof the situation--and he had not detected it at present--this mirth, hefelt, was unnatural and excessive.

  She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face.

  'I don't know why I did that,' she said, abruptly. 'I'm sorry. Therewas nothing funny in what you said. But I'm not Lady Julia, and I haveno mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing moreimportant than her companion.'

  'Her companion!'

  'I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I hadstrict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her--and Iwent.'

  'Then--then I've lost you your job--I mean, your position! If it hadn'tbeen for me she wouldn't have known. I--'

  'You have done me a great service,' she said. 'You have cut the painterfor me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage tocut it for myself. I don't suppose you know what it is to get into agroove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother hasbeen writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn'tthe courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out ofgrooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy--atleast, not unhappy; so--well, there it was. I suppose women are likethat.'

  'And now--?'

  'And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob bythe first boat.'

  He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick.

  'It's a hard life out there,' he said.

  'But it _is_ a life.'

  He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very faraway--in another world.

  'Look here,' he said, hoarsely, and stopped. 'May I sit down?' heasked, abruptly. 'I've got something to say, and I can't say it whenI'm looking at you.'

  He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchoragainst the cloudless sky.

  'Look here,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'

  He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went ondoggedly.

  'I know,' he said, 'we only met yesterday. You probably think I'm mad.'

  'I don't think you're mad,' she said, quietly. 'I only think you're tooquixotic. You're sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carryyou away, as you did last night at the casino. It's like you.'

  For the first time he turned towards her.

  'I don't know what you suppose I am,' he said, 'but I'll tell you. I'ma clerk in an insurance office. I get a hundred a year and ten days'holiday. Did you take me for a millionaire? If I am, I'm only atuppenny one. Somebody left me a thousand pounds a few weeks ago.That's how I come to be here. Now you know all about me. I don't knowanything about you except that I shall never love anybody else. Marryme, and we'll go to Canada together. You say I've helped you out ofyour groove. Well, I've only one chance of getting out of mine, andthat's through you. If you won't help me, I don't care if I get out ofit or not. Will you pull me out?'

  She did not speak. She sat looking out to sea, past the many-colouredcrowd.

  He watched her face, but her hat shaded her eyes and he could readnothing in it.

  And then, suddenly, without quite knowing how it had got there, hefound that her hand was in his, and he was clutching it as a drowningman clutches a rope.

  He could see her eyes now, and there was a message in them that set hisheart racing. A great content filled him. She was so companionable,such a friend. It seemed incredible to him that it was only yesterdaythat they had met for the first time.

  'And now,' she said, 'would you mind telling me your name?'

  * * * * *

  The little waves murmured as they rolled lazily up the beach. Somewherebehind the trees in the gardens a band had begun to play. The breeze,blowing in from the blue Mediterranean, was charged with salt andhappiness. And from a seat on the promenade, a young man swept thecrowd with a defiant gaze.

  'It isn't true,' it seemed to say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'