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bar-caf6-mail-office-supply-depart-ment of the bungalows. The sand under his tennis shoes was powdery. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and when he encountered a huge woman talking in French to her tiny son, who looked like a wisp beside her, Ingham turned aimlessly back. He was trying to think what he should do next. Cable Ina again, perhaps. He might stay on a day or so to get a letter from her — if she had written. Suddenly, everything seemed so doubtful, so vague.
    He went back to his bungalow-which he had left unlocked against the advice of Adams who told him to lock it if he were away even one minute — took his billfold and set out, having locked the door this time, for the main building of the hotel. He would cable Ina, and take a look at the newspapers on the tables in the lobby. Sometimes the papers were several days old. There might be something about John in a Paris Herald-Tribune. He should look for a Monday June 12 th paper, he thought. Or possibly a Tuesday paper, the 13 th .
    A series of broad, shallow steps led from the beach up to the rear entrance of the hotel. There was an open shower for swimmers at the foot of the steps, and some corpulent Germans, a man and a woman, were yelling and screaming as they de-sanded each other ’ s backs under the water. On going closer to them, Ingham was irked to hear that they were speaking very American American. At the hotel desk, Ingham sent a cable to Ina:
    HEARD ABOUT JOHN FROM LANGLAND. WRITE
    OR CABLE AT ONCE. BAFFLED. LOVE. HOWARD.

    He sent it to Ina ’ s house in Brooklyn, because she would surely get it there, whatever was happening, and she just might not be at work if her brother Joey was having a bad spell and she had to look after him. Neither on the low tables nor on the shelves at the back of the lobby could Ingham find a paper of weekend June 10 th – 11 th , nor a paper in English or French for June 12th or 13th.
    ‘ If you please, ’ Ingham said in careful French to the young Arab clerk at the desk, handing him a five-hundred-millime bill, ‘ would you see that any letter that comes for me today is delivered at once to my bungalow? Number three. It is very important .’ He had printed his name on a piece of paper.
    He thought of having a drink at the bar, and decided not to ’ He did not know what he wanted to do. Oddly enough, he felt he could work on his novel this afternoon. But logically he should make plans about leaving, speak to the hotel now. He didn ’ t.
    Ingham went back to his bungalow, put on swimming trunks, and went for a swim. He saw Adams at some distance, bearing his spear, but managed to avoid Adams ’ s seeing him. Adams always went for a swim before lunch, he said.
    That afternoon, Ingham found he could write only one paragraph. He was too anxious for a word from Ina, which he felt positive would come in the afternoon post that arrived at any time between four-thirty and six-thirty. But nothing came except something from the U.S. Internal Revenue Department in a windowed envelope, forwarded by Ina. The government wanted three hundred and twenty-eight dollars more. Ingham ’ s accountant had made a slight mistake, apparently. Ingham wrote the cheque and put it in an airmail envelope.
    To satisfy himself, Ingham looked first in the bungalow headquarters ’ office — eight unclaimed letters, but none for him — then walked to the main building. Nothing there for him, either. He walked back barefoot, carrying his sandals, letting the little waves break against his ankles. The declining sun was behind him. He stared at the wet sand at his feet.
    ‘ Howard ! Where ’ ve you been? ’ Adams stood a few yards away, his nose shiny and brown. Now he reminded Ingham of a rabbit. ‘ Come and have a drink chez moi!’
    “ Thanks very much .’ Ingham said, hesitated, then asked, “ When did you mean? ’
    “ Now. I was just on my way home .’
    “ Did you have a good day? ’ Ingham asked, making an