Gerry? Not very likely. What's the meaning of that?
Explain."

"Why, Sally and her doctor are staring out at the offing...."

"Well?"

"And didn't you say they had gone to find out if they were blown
away?"

"I supposed they changed their minds." Rosalind talks absently, as
if they didn't matter. All her thoughts are on her husband. But she
doesn't fancy catechizing him about his experiences in the night,
neither. She had better let him alone, and wait new oblivion or a
healthy revival.

He is also _distrait_, and when he spoke of Sally and the doctor he
had shown no interest in his own words. His eyes do not kindle at hers
in his old way, and might be seeing nothing, for all there is in them
to tell of it. He makes very short work of a cup of coffee, and a mere
pretence of anything else; and then, suddenly rousing himself with
a shake, says this won't do, and he must go out and get a blow. All
right, says Rosalind, and he'd better get Dr. Conrad, and make him go
for a walk. Only they are not to fall over the cliff.

"Fall over the cliff!" repeats Fenwick. He laughs, and she is glad at
the sound. "You couldn't fall over the cliff against such a wind as
this. I defy any one to." He kisses her and goes out, and she hears
him singing, as he hunts for a stick that has vanished, an old French
song:

"Aupres de ma blond-e
Comme c'est bon--c'est bon--c'est bon...."

Only, when he has found the stick and his hat, he does not go at once,
but comes back, and says, as he kisses her again: "Don't fidget about
me, darling; I'm all right." Which must have been entirely brain-wave
or thought-reading, as Rosalind had said never a word of her anxiety,
so far.

Fenwick walked away briskly towards the flagstaff where Sally and
Vereker had been looking out to sea. In the dazzling sunshine--all
the more dazzling for the suddenness of its come and go--and the
intoxicating rush of well-washed air that each of those crested waves
out yonder knew so much about--and they were all of a tale--and such a
companion in the enjoyment of it as that white sea-bird afloat against
the blue gap of sky or purple underworld of cloud, what could he do
other than cast away the thoughts the night had left, the cares,
whatever they were, that the revival of memory had brought back?

If he could not succeed altogether in putting them aside, at least
he could see his way to bearing them better, with a kiss of his wife
still on his face, and all