We passed the fairground gaiety of the Juan-les-Pins casino and resort hotels and dropped by Villa Mirabeau, running down to the beach to chivvy Tilly out from her sunbathing nook (“Change of plan, Tilly, we—no, I left the Bugatti behind on Cap Ferrat, but never mind that, there’s plenty of room in the Bentley and we’ve a much better plan for luncheon than Andre d’Erlanger’s. Matthias has discovered that our friend from London resides here on Cap d’Antibes. You’re coming with us to call on M. Meilland! Yes, the Frenchman from the Savoy!”) and raiding the larder for more supplies before driving on further away from the common way along the peninsula. We arrived at a modest house on that quiet, lonely cape jutting out into the Mediterranean, covered in wild tangled forests of pine and fir tu
