or
till all the wings of chicken were gone and only legs left; or how
there was a bull somewhere; or how next day the cat got caught on the
shoulder of one of you and had to be detached, hooking horribly, by
the other; or how you felt hurt (not jealous, but hurt) because she
(or he) was decently civil to some new he (or she), and how relieved
you were when you heard it was Mr. or Mrs. Some-name-you've-forgotten.
Why, if you were to ask now, of that grey man or woman whose life was
linked with yours, maybe now sixty years agone, did he or she have
a drumstick, or go on to ham-sandwiches?--or, was it really a bull,
after all?--or, had that cat's claws passed out of memory?--or, what
was the name of that lady (or gentleman) at the So-and-so's?--if
you asked any of these things, she or he might want a repeat into
a deaf ear but would answer clear enough in the end, and recall
the drumsticks and the equivocal bull, the cat's claws, and the
unequivocal married person. And then you would turn over all the
little things of old, and wrangle a bit over details here and there;
and all the while you would be the very selfsame two that were young
and were lost in the wood and trampled down the fern and saw the
squirrels overhead all those long years ago.

Many a little thing of a like nature--perhaps some identical--made up
hours that became days in that fortnight we have to skip, and then the
end was drawing near; and Dr. Conrad would have to go back and write
prescriptions with nothing that could possibly do any harm in them,
and abstain with difficulty from telling young ladies with cultivated
waists they were liars when they said you could get a loaf of bread
between all round, and it was sheer nonsense. And other little
enjoyments of a G.P.'s life. Yes, the end was very near. But Sally's
resolute optimism thrust regrets for the coming chill aside, and
decided to be jolly while we could, and acted up to its decision.

Besides, an exciting variation gave an interest to the last week of
the doctor's stay at St. Sennans. The wandering honeymooners, in
gratitude to that saint, proposed to pay him a visit on their way back
to London. Perhaps they would stop a week. So the smallest possible
accommodation worthy of the name was found for them over a brandyball
and bull's-eye shop in a house that had no back rooms, being laid like
a vertical plaster against the cliff behind, and having an exit on
a flat roof where you might bask in th