ne of deference
in his use of the word. She did as he asked her, slightly interrupting
her narrative to make sure of getting the tea made right as she did
so.

"I trod on your foot, you know. (One, two, three spoonfuls.) Surely
you must remember that? (Four, and a little one for the pot.)"

"I have completely forgotten it."

"Then I was sorry, and said I would have come off sooner if I had
known it was a foot. You _must_ remember that?" The man half smiled as
he shook a slow-disclaiming head--one that would have remembered so
gladly, if it could. "Then," continues Sally, "I saw your thumb-ring
for rheumatism."

"My thumb-ring!" He presses his fingers over his closed eyes, as
though to give Memory a better chance by shutting off the visible
present, then withdraws them. "No, I remember no ring at all."

"How extraordinary!"

"I remember a violent concussion _somewhere_--I can't say where--and
then finding myself in a cab, trying to speak to a lady whose face
seemed familiar to me, but who she could be I had not the slightest
idea. Then I tried to get out of the cab, and found I could not
move--or hardly."

"Look at mamma again! Here she is, come." For Mrs. Nightingale has
come into the room, looking white. "Yes, mother dear, I have. Quite
full up to the brim. Only it isn't ready to pour yet." This last
concerns the tea.

Mrs. Nightingale moves round behind the tea-maker, and comes full-face
in front of her guest. One might have fancied that the hand that held
the pocket-handkerchief that caused the smell of eau-de-Cologne that
came in with her was tremulous. But then that very eau-de-Cologne was
eloquent about the recent effect of the heat. Of course, she was a
little upset. Nothing strikes either the doctor or Mademoiselle Sally
as abnormal or extraordinary. The latter resumes:

"Surely, sir! Oh, you must, you _must_ remember about the name
Nightingale?"

"This young gentleman said it just now. _Your_ name, madame?"

"Certainly, my name," says the lady addressed. But Sally
distinguishes:

"Yes, but I didn't mean that. I meant when I took the ring from you,
and was to pay for it. Sixpence. And you had no change for
half-a-crown. And then I gave you my mother's card to send it to us
here. One-and-elevenpence, because of the postage. Why, surely you can
remember that!" She cannot bring herself to believe him. Dr. Vereker
does, though, and tells him not to try recollecting; he will only put
himself back. "