his kiss on the rim of her
spectacles, Conrad couldn't tell. Probably she meant he might have
kissed her before.

There was no doubt, however, about her intention of knitting till past
one in the morning. She did it enlarging on the medical status of her
illustrious uncle, Dr. Everett Gayler, who had just crept into the
conversation. Her son wasn't so sorry for this as Mrs. Iggulden, who
dozed and waked with starts, on principle, outside in the passage
unseen. _He_ could stand at the wide-open window, and hear the little
waves plash "Sally" in the moonlight, and the counter-music of the
down-drawn shingle echo "Sally" back. Sometimes the pebbles and the
water gave place for a moment to the tread of two persistent walkers
up and down--men who smoked cigars, and became a little audible and
died again at every time of passing.

One time the doctor caught a rise of voice--though they did not pass
so very near--that said: "My idea is to stay here till...."

Then at the next turn the same voice grew from inaudibility to ...
"So I arranged with the parson here for to-morrow, and we shall
get...." and died again. At this moment Dr. Everett Gayler was at
the climax of his fame, having just performed tracheotomy on the
Grand Duke of Hesse-Junkerstadt, and been created Knight-Commander
of some Order whose name Mrs. Vereker wasn't sure about.

Next time the men returned, the same voice that seemed to do all the
talking said: "... Expensive, of course, but she hates the idea of
a registry-office." They paused, and the listener heard that the other
voice had said something to which the first replied: "No, not Grundy.
But she had some friends cooked at one, and they said it was stuffy,
and they would sooner have endured twenty short homilies...."

A wax vesta scratched, blazed, lighted another cigar, and the second
voice said, "Oh--ah!" and both grew inaudible again.

Dr. Everett Gayler had just pronounced the Grand Duchess's
disease--they were an afflicted family--a disease his narrator
couldn't pronounce at all. Most of her bones, in a state of necrosis,
had been skilfully removed by the time the smokers had passed back.
But so much more was Dr. Conrad listening to what the waves said to
the shingle and the shingle answered back, than to either the Grand
Duchess or the registry-office, that it never crossed his mind whose
the voice was who lit the vesta. He heard it say good-night--its owner
would get back to the hotel--and