164 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



I turned for consolation to the lift-porter. All 

 that he could do was to suggest possibilities for 

 June, but in June all going well, I should be resid- 

 ing in Marrakesh, the southernmost capital of 

 the empire ruled by him whom men call Abdul 

 Aziz. For several days I hung about on land, 

 where, since I aspired neither to play go]f nor to 

 watch others shoot pigeons, the least boring after- 

 noon was spent at a pelota-match between 

 Basque and Spanish champions, which had been 

 arranged in honour of the King of Sweden. That 

 most courteous monarch arrived late, and quite 

 inadvertently an hotel acquaintance and myself 

 sat immediately beneath the bench reserved for the 

 Royal party, the only distinction of which was a 

 covering of red baize. When the entire assembly 

 stood up, and the King entered with a bevy of 

 beauty and a number of gentlemen in attendance, 

 we realised our mistake and were about to retire, 

 when one of the gentlemen in waiting assured us 

 in French that His Majesty begged that we would 

 not " derange ourselves/' We did not, and got 

 an excellent view of an interesting game in 

 consequence. 



Yet the sea was calling to me just beyond the 

 rocky little harbour, and I was never deaf to that 

 cal] yet. That was what brought me to the quay, 

 and a friendly customs official, with an eye for 

 a bock, soon accosted me in execrable French and 



