They camp under the highest peak, on the far side of the plain. They have pitched their tent, they have lit their stove, and in the quick-dropping dark at the foot of the mountain they have eaten their reconstituted soup. And all the time the boy talked: about the stove, "Well, I've already compromised by not being on the beach sunbathing at this very moment."
     "You can't sunbathe in November, no matter how hot it is. It's just not British."
     Helen laughed, and Sam gazed into her deep blue eyes for an appreciative moment. He realised that he'd seen that same blue, a few hours earlier, in the Matisse museum. Blue nude blue.
     They both looked out through the open door of the cafe at the Promenade des Anglais. Children on tricycles drove in circles around old ladies with sticks. Small dogs greeted each other, bouncing on the ends of their leads while their owners watched indulgently. Small scuds of white cloud punctuated the mild blue of the sky over a glittering sea. A passenger airplane droned slowly across the Baie des Anges, sneaking up on the airport. Sam felt slightly sleepy. He remembered the book he'd started reading back in the hotel room, a battered copy of "The Nature of Existence" by J. E. McTaggart that he'd found in a used book bin in the Rue de France for only ten francs. Helen had jumped on to the bed next to him after her shower and had looked over his shoulder while she dried her hair.
about the valve at the top of its canister of gas - gabbling, his voice growing shrill when the man failed to light it first time and the flare sputtered and died.