fluence. He's conscious of
his ma, but adores her. Only he's aware she's overwhelming, and always
gets her own roundabout way. I prefer Tishy's dragon, if you ask
_me_."

At that point Sally is quite unconscious of Fenwick's amused eyes
fixed on her, and his smile in ambush. She says the last words
through a hairpin, while her hands take advantage of the lull to
make a good job of that rope of black hair. She will go on and tell
all the story; so Fenwick doesn't speak. Surprised at first by the
tale of Dr. Conrad's young lady, his ideas have by now fructified.
Sally continues:

"He's often told me he thought G.P.'s were better single, for their
wives' sakes--that sounds wrong, somehow!--but it isn't that. It's
his ma entirely. I suppose he's told you about the epileptiform
disorders?" No, he hadn't. "Well, now! Fancy Prosy not telling you
that! He's become quite an authority since those papers he had in
the 'Lancet,' and he's thinking of giving up general practice. Sir
Dioscorides Gayler's a cousin of his, you know, and would pass on
his practice to Prosy on easy terms. House in Seymour Street, Portman
Square. Great authority on epilepsy and epileptiform disorders. Wants
a successor who knows about 'em. Naturally. Wants three thousand
pounds. Naturally. Big fees! But he would make it easy for Prosy."

"That would be all right; soon manage that." Fenwick speaks with
the confidence of one in a thriving trade. The deity of commerce,
security, can manage all things. Insecurity is atheism in the City.
"But then," he adds, "Vereker wouldn't marry, even with a house and
big-fee consultations, because he's afraid his mother would hector
over his wife. Is that it?"

"That's it! It's his Goody mother. I say, it _is_ blowing!" It was,
and they had emerged from the shelter into the wind. No more talk!

* * * * *

As Fenwick, sea-blown and salted, resorted to the lodging-house
allowance of fresh water and soap, in a perfunctory and formal
preparation for dinner, his mind ran continually on Sally's
communication. As for the other young lady being valid, that he
dismissed as nonsense not worth consideration. Vereker had been
resorting to a furtive hint of a declaration, disguised as fiction.
It was a _fabula narrata de_ Sally, _mutato nomine_. If she didn't
see through it, and respond in kind, it would show him how merely
a friend he was, and nothing more. "Perhaps he doesn't understand
our daug