Well, I reached Ostend.  The town of palaces contained a Kursaal and a Casino.  There were also a number of large hotels of the King’s Road, Brighton, plus Northumberland Avenue type.  Further, there were several maisons meublees let out in flats, and (to judge from the prices demanded and obtained for them) to flats.  The suite of apartments on the ground floor consisted of a small bed-room, a tiny drawing-room, and a balcony.  The balcony was used, as a salle a manger in fine weather, and a place for the utterance of strong expressions (so I was informed) when the rain interfered with al fresco comfort.  There was a steam tramway, and some bathing-machines of the springless throw-you-down-when-you-least-expect-it sort.  The streets, omitting the walk in front of the sea, were narrow, and the shops about as interesting as those at the poorer end of the Tottenham Court Road.  But these were merely details, the pride of Ostend being the Kursaal, which reminded me of an engine-house near a London terminus.  I purchased a ticket for the Kursaal and the Casino.  There was to be a concert at the first and a ball at the last.  I soon had enough of the concert, and started for the ball.

It was then that I found a regulation in force that made my cheeks tingle with indignation as an Englishman.  Although the tickets costing three francs a piece, were said to secure admittance to the Kursaal and the Casino, I noticed that children—­good and amiable children—­were not allowed to enter the latter place.  I could understand the feelings of a gentleman who attempted to obtain access for his eldest lad—­a gallant boy of some fourteen summers, and a baker’s dozen of winters.  My heart went out to that British Father as he disputed with the Commissaires at the doorway, and called the attention of the Representative of “the Control” to the fact that his billet was misleading.  “You are an Englishman,” said the Representative of the Control, “and the English observe the law.”  “Yes,” returned the angry Father; “but in England the Law would support one in obtaining that for which one had paid.  My son has paid for admission to the Kursaal and the Casino!  He is refused admittance to the Casino, therefore this ticket of his spreads false intelligence!  It is a liar!  It is a miserable!  It should be called the traitor ticket!” But all was useless.  The gallant lad had to remain with the umbrellas!  I could not help sympathising with that father.  I could not refrain from agreeing with him, that where such a thing was possible, something must be entirely wrong.  I could not deny that under the circumstances Ostend was a sham, a delusion, and a snare!  When he observed that Ostend was grotesquely expensive, I admitted that he was right.  When he said that it was not a patch upon Boulogne or Dieppe, I again acquiesced.  When he asserted that every English tourist would be wise to avoid the place, I acknowledged