Breakfast the next morning has an awkward tinge. All the could-be-coupled around a table of eggs. Each arrived in staggered line the night before at the thin-walled lodgings. Only now to match the muffled sounds of earlier to singe-blushed faces. The silence, too, has a color that accompanies the two who stayed in The -bluest- Blue Room. Even amongst a larger shared hush, they are easy to spot. Less new, more old boot. No one lingers over their tea or fresh-squeezed juice. The slight chatter of weather and of traffic, what is showing at the local cinema (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) and where the best place to lunch resides are broached, delicately. Each privately notes not to dine there, now. But any chance to banter is rushed. Bacon can’t be chewed fast enough. There’s a series of glances, who will make their excuses first, an air, a collective wondering, is it too much of a scene if we all get up at once? Last one to Land’s End and the ghost of Edith Wharton…, one jokes and let’s tail off. Rather, it’s a general hum-bunched march towards the red front door.