hter's character," said Fenwick to Rosalind, when he had
repeated the conversation to her. "Of course he doesn't," she
replied. "No young man of his sort understands girls the least.
The other sort of young man understands the other sort of girls."

And then a passing wonderment had touched her mind, of how strange
it was that Sally should be one of her own sort, so very distinctly.
How about inheritance? She grew reflective and silent over it, and
then roused herself to wonder, illogically, why Gerry hadn't gone
on talking.

The reason was that as his mind dwelt happy and satisfied on the
good prospect Vereker would have if he could step into his cousin's
specialist practice as a consulting physician, with a reputation
already begun, his thoughts were caught with a strange jerk. What
and whence was a half-memory of some shadowy store of wealth that was
to make it the easiest thing in the world for him to finance the new
departure? It had nothing to do with the vast mysterious possibilities
of credit. It was a recollection of some resourceful backing he was
entitled to, somehow; and he was reminded by it of his dream about the
furniture--(we told you of that?)--but with a reservation. When he
woke from the sleep-dream of the furniture, he in a short time could
distinctly identify it as a dream, and was convinced no such furniture
had ever existed. He could not shake off this waking dream, and it
clogged his mind painfully, and made him silent.

So much so that when Rosalind, soon completed for the banqueting-board,
looked into the adjoining room to see what progress Gerry was making,
and why he was silent, she only saw the back of a powerful frame in
its shirt-sleeves, and a pair of hands holding on each side an
unbrushed head. The elbows indispensable to them rested on the
window-bar.

"Look alive, Gerry darling!--you'll make dinner late.... Anything
wrong, dear love?" Sudden anxiety in her voice. "Is it another...?"
Another what? No need to define, exactly!

"A sort of one," Fenwick answers. "Not so bad as the last. Hardly
describable! Never mind."

He made no effort towards description, and his wife did not press
him for it. What good end could be gained by fidgeting him?

But she knew now that her life would be weighted with an anxiety
hard to bear, until his hesitating return of memory should make its
decision of success or failure. A guarantee of the latter would have
been most to her liking, but how coul