just giving up my quest in despair, when through the rain, which was now falling heavily, I spied a small stucco villa standing shrinkingly back behind a row of palings, which, in spite of their green paint, looked more like domestic fire-sticks than anything else.  The somewhat suggestive name of Frogmore was inscribed on the small gate, and I remembered that I quite shivered as I walked up the sloppy path, with my usual inquiry ready to hand.  This time, though, I was right, and when, a few minutes later, I was sitting before a roaring fire, imbibing hot tea, and listening to my Aunt’s account of her latest complaint (did I tell you she was hypochondriacal?) I felt that really and at last I was in for a pleasant visit.

The evening proved a short one, for Aunt retired at nine, for which I was not sorry, as by that time the atmosphere of the sitting-room was distinctly stuffy, and neither dinner, nor the fumes of the invalid’s hot-and-strong “night-cap” improved it.  Next morning I sympathised with her on the fact that, soon after she had gone to bed, the young lady on the drawing-room floor (for two other families shared Frogmore’s roof with us) had begun to sing, and had continued her performances till midnight; but I found my commiseration wasted, for she said that it had soothed her, which was considerably more than it had done me.  After breakfast—­which was late, on account of Aunt’s health—­I proposed a stroll on the Promenade, or an inspection of the tennis courts.  “Bless my soul!” cried Auntie, “a person in my state of health does not go to places all over promenades and tennis courts.  You won’t find any such things at a nice quiet resort like Flatsands.”  I felt a little dashed, but replied “that perhaps she was right, and that it was a nice change to be without tennis; and that, as to promenades, they were quite superfluous where there was a pier, and a good band.”  “A pier, child!” she screamed.  “You won’t find any such abominations as piers here, or German bands either.  Do you think that I should come anywhere where there was a pier?” I felt the smile on my face becoming fixed, but I mastered my feelings sufficiently to murmur something about bathing before lunch.

“You can’t bathe here,” snapped Aunt—­“they don’t allow it.  The shore is too dangerous.  But you can come out with me, if you like, to the tradespeople—­I see my bath-chair coming along the road.”

And that, Mr. Punch, is how I spent my fortnight at Flatsands.  Walking by the side of my Aunt’s chair, and giving orders to the tradespeople in the morning; walking beside the same chair and blowing up the tradespeople for not having carried out the orders, in the afternoon; sitting in a hot room from five to nine o’clock, then lying awake till midnight, listening to the drawing-room young lady singing Italian and German songs out of tune, and with an English accent.