ER'S
CONFIDENCE BY STORM. OF A COLLIER THAT PUT TO SEA. SUCCESSFUL
AMBUSCADE OF THE OCTOPUS. PROVISIONAL EQUILIBRIUM OF FENWICK'S MIND.
WHY BOTHER ABOUT HORACE? WHY NOT ABOUT PICKWICK JUST AS MUCH? THE
KITTEN WASN'T THERE--CERTAINLY NOT!

So it came about that during the remainder of that day and part of the
next Fenwick either made no further exploration of his past; or, if
he did so, concealed his discoveries. For he not only kept silence
with Rosalind, but even with Vereker was absolutely reserved, never
alluding to their conversation of the morning. And the doctor accepted
this reserve, and asked no questions.

As for Rosalind, she was only too glad to catch at the support of the
medical authority and to abstain from question or suggestion; for the
present certainly, and, unless her silence--as might be--should seem
to imply a motive on her part, to maintain it until her husband
revived the subject by disclosing further recollections of the bygone
time. Happily Sally knew nothing about it; _that_ her mother was
convinced of. And Sally wasn't likely to know anything, for Vereker's
professional discretion could be relied on, even if her suspicions
were excited. And, really, except that Fenwick seemed a little drowsy
and reflective, and that Rosalind had a semitone of consolation in her
manner towards him, there was nothing to excite suspicion.

* * * * *

After the cows--this is an expression borrowed from Sally, later in
the afternoon--conversation flagged through the rest of the walk home.
Except for regrets, more than once expressed, that it would be much
too late for tea when we got in, and a passing word on the fact that
at the seaside one got as greedy as some celebrated glutton--a Roman
emperor, perhaps--very few ideas were interchanged. But a little
conversation was made out of the scarcity of a good deal, for the
persistent optimism of Sally recognised that it was awfully jolly
saying nothing on such a lovely evening. Slight fatigue, combined
with the beauty of sky and sea and distant downland, the lengthening
shadows of the wheatsheaves, and the scarlet of poppies in the
stubble, seemed good to justify contemplation and silence. It was an
hour to caress in years to come, none the less that it was accepted as
the mere routine of daily life in the short term of its existence. It
was an hour that came to an end when the party arrived at the hedge of
the unripe sloes