ning to feel that she had made a mistake. She did not
feel so sure Sally would hear nothing. A recollection crossed her mind
of how one of the few incidents there was time for in her short married
life had been the writing of a letter by her husband to his friend, the
real Fenwick, and of much chaff therein about the eldest of these very
daughters, and her powerful rivalry to Jessie Nairn. It came back to
her now. Sally alarmed her still further.

"Yes, mother. I shall just get Mr. Fenwick to hunt up the address, and
go and call on the Beazleys." This sudden assumption of a concrete form
by the family was due to a vivid image that filled Sally's active brain
immediately of a household of parched women presided over by a dried
man who owned a wig on a stand and knew what chaff-wax meant, which
she didn't. A shop window near Lincoln's Inn was responsible. But to
Rosalind it really seemed that Sally must have had other means of
studying this family, and she was frightened.

"You don't know them, kitten?"

"Not the least. Don't want to." This reflection suggests caution.
"Perhaps I'd better write...."

"Better do nothing of the sort, child. Better go to sleep...."

"All right." But Sally does not like quitting the subject so abruptly,
and enlarges on it a little more. She sketches out a letter to be
written to the lady who is at present a buffer-state between the dried
man and the parched women. "Dear madam," she recites, "you may perhaps
recall--or will perhaps recall--which is right, mother?"

"Either, dear. Go to sleep." But just at this moment Rosalind
recollects with satisfaction that the name was neither Beazley nor
Dearman, but Tressilian Tredgold. She has been thinking of falling
back on affectation of sleep to avoid more alarms, but this makes it
needless.

"I'm sure I've got the name wrong," she says, with revived wakefulness
in her voice.

But Sally is murmuring to herself--"Perhaps recall my mother, Mrs.
Rosalind Nightingale--Rosalind in brackets--by her maiden name of--by
the same name--who married the late Mr. Graythorpe in India--I say,
mother...."

"Yes, little goose."

"How am I to put all that?"

"Go to sleep! I don't think you'll find that family very--coming. My
impression is you had much better leave it alone. What good would it
do you to find out who Mr. Fenwick was? And perhaps have him go away
to Australia!"

"Why Australia?"

Oh dear, what mistakes Rosalind did make! Why on earth n