The guests were Audrey, Jane Foley, and a young rubicund gentleman, beautifully clothed, and with fair curly locks, named Ziegler.  Mr. Ziegler was far more perfectly at ease than anybody else at the table, which indeed as a whole was rendered haggard and nervous by the precarious state of the conversation, expecting its total decease at any moment.  At intervals someone lifted the limp dying body—­it sank back—­was lifted again—­struggled feebly—­relapsed.  Young Siegfried was excessively tongue-tied and self-conscious, and his demeanour frankly admitted it.  Jane Foley, acknowledged heroine in certain fields, sat like a schoolgirl at her first dinner-party.  Audrey maintained her widowhood, but scarcely with credit.  Mr. and Mrs. Spatt were as usual too deeply concerned about the awful condition of the universe to display that elasticity of mood which continuous chatter about nothing in particular demands.  And they were too worshipful of the best London conventions not to regard silence at table as appalling.  In the part of the country from which Jane Foley sprang, hosts will sit mute through a meal and think naught of it.  But Mr. and Mrs. Spatt were of different stuff.  All these five appeared to be in serious need of conversation pills.  Only Mr. Ziegler beheld his companions with a satisfied equanimity that was insensible to spiritual suffering.  Happily at the most acute moments the gentle night wind, meandering slowly from the east across leagues of North Sea, would induce in one or another a sneeze which gave some semblance of vitality and vigour to the scene.

After one of these sneezes it was that Jane Foley, conscience-stricken, tried to stimulate the exchanges by an effort of her own.

“And what are the folks like in Frinton?” she demanded, blushing, and looking up.  As she looked up young Siegfried looked down, lest he might encounter her glance and be utterly discountenanced.

Jane Foley’s question was unfortunate.

“We know nothing of them,” said Mrs. Spatt, pained.  “Of course I have received and paid a few purely formal calls.  But as regards friends and acquaintances, we prefer to import them from London.  As for the holiday-makers, one sees them, naturally.  They appear to lead an exclusively physical existence.”

“My dear,” put in Mr. Spatt stiffly.  “The residents are no better.  The women play golf all day on that appalling golf course, and then after tea they go into the town to change their library books.  But I do not believe that they ever read their library books.  The mentality of the town is truly remarkable.  However, I am informed that there are many towns like it.”

“You bet!” murmured Siegfried Spatt, and then tried, vainly, to suck back the awful remark whence it had come.

Mr. Ziegler, speaking without passion or sorrow, added his views about Frinton.  He asserted that it was the worst example of stupid waste of opportunities he had ever encountered, even in England.  He pointed out that there was no band, no pier, no casino, no shelters—­and not even a tree; and that there were no rules to govern the place.  He finished by remarking that no German state would tolerate such a pleasure resort.  In this judgment he employed an excellent English accent, with a scarcely perceptible thickening of the t’s and thinning of the d’s.