And
he is as wax in her hands, and she knows it, and also that every word
that passes her coral lips seems to the poor stricken man a pearl of
wisdom. And she is girl enough to enjoy her power, is Sally.

"_Why_ do you think I shan't get on with her?" Note the slight
variation in the question, driving the nail home, leaving no escape.
The doctor's manner in reply is that of one who appeals to Truth
herself to help him, before a court that acknowledges no other
jurisdiction.

"Because ... I must say it because it's true, only it seems so ...
so disloyal, you might say, to mother...."

"Well! Because what?"

"Because then it won't be the same as _your_ mother. It can't be."

"Why not?"

"Oh, Sally--dearest love--how can it?"

"Well! Perhaps _why not_ was fibs. And, of course, mother's an angel,
so it's not fair. But, Prosy dear, I'll tell you one thing I _do_
think--that affectionate sons make very bad medical attendants for
their ma's; and I should say the same if they had all the degrees in
Christendom."

"You think a nervous element comes in?..."

* * * * *

And so the conversation ripples on, a quiet undertone of perfect
confidence, freedom without reserve as to another self, suddenly
discovered in the working identity of a fellow-creature. It ripples
on just thus, all the distance of the walk along the topmost down, in
the evening sunlight, and then comes a pause to negotiate the descent
to their handy little forest below. Then a sense that they are coming
back into a sane, dry world, and must be a lady and a gentleman again.
But there must be a little farewell to the enchanted land they are
leaving behind--a recognition of its story, under the beech-trees as
the last gleam goes, and leaves us our inheritance of twilight.

"Do you remember, darling, how we climbed up there, coming, and had
hold to the top?" His lips find hers, naturally and without disguise.
It is the close of the movement, and company-manners will be wanted
directly. But just a bar or two, and a space, before the music
dies!...

"I remember," says Sally. "That began it. Oh, what a long time ago
that does seem now! What a rum start it all is--the whole turn-out!"
For the merpussy is her incorrigible self, and will be to the last.

* * * * *

When Sally reached home, very late, she was not displeased, though she
was a little surprised, to find that Mrs. Lobjoit was keepi