In the old days I should have preferred our excursion to be made in bad weather. For then I still looked to find in Balbec the “Cimmerians’ land,” and fine days were a thing that had no right to exist there, an intrusion of the vulgar summer of seaside holiday makers into that ancient region swathed in eternal mist. But now, everything that I had hitherto despised, shut out of my field of vision, not only effects of sunlight upon sea and shore, but even the regattas, the race-meetings, I would have sought out with ardour, for the reason for which formerly I had wanted only stormy seas, which was that these were now associated in my mind, as the others had been, with an aesthetic idea. Because I had gone several times with my new friends to visit Elstir, and, on the days when the girls were there, what he had selected to show us were drawings of pretty women in yachting dress, or else a sketch made on a racecourse near Balbec. I had at first shyly admitted to Elstir that I had not felt inclined to go to the meetings that were being held there. “You were wrong,” he told me, “it is such a pretty sight, and so well worth seeing.