"_I_ don't know, darling, if
Sally doesn't. Why do you want to know?"

"Couldn't say. It crossed my mind. I know the kitten wasn't there,
though. Good-night, love.... Oh yes, I shall sleep to-night. Ta, ta,
Sarah--pleasant dreams!"

But he had not reached the door when the voice of Sarah came again,
with the implication of a mouth that had come out into the open.

"Stop, Jeremiah!" it said. "It wasn't at K. Villa."

"Why not, chick?"

"Because Pickwick's _lost_! It was lent to those impossible people
at Turnham Green, and they stole it. I know they did. Name like
Marylebone."

"The Haliburtons? Why, that's ever so long ago." Thus Rosalind.

"Of course it is. It's been gone ages. I'm going to sleep.
Good-night!" And Jeremiah said good-night once more and departed.

Sally didn't go straight to sleep, but she made a start on her way
there. It was not a vigorous start, for she had hardly begun upon
it when she desisted, and sat up in bed and listened.

"What's that, mother? Nothing wrong, is there?"

"No, darling child, what should be wrong? Go to sleep."

"I thought I heard you gasp, or snuffle, or sigh, or sob, or click
in your throat. That's all. Sure you didn't?"

"Quite sure. Now, do be a reasonable kitten, and go to sleep; I
shall be in bed in half-a-second."

And Sally subsides, but first makes a stipulation: "You _will_ sleep
in your hair, mother darling, won't you? Or, at least, do it up, and
not that hateful nightcap?"

But though Rosalind felt conscientiously able to disclaim any of
the sounds Sally had described, something audible had occurred in her
breathing. Sally's first word had gone nearest, but it was hardly
a full-grown gasp.

Her husband's question about "Pickwick" had scarcely taken her
attention off an exciting story-climax, and she really did want to
know why the Archbishop turned pale as death when the Countess kissed
him. Gerry was looking well and cheerful again, and there was nothing
to connect his inquiry with any reminiscence of "B.C." So, as soon
as he had gone, she reopened her book--not without a mental allusion
to a dog in Proverbs--and went on where she had left off. The writer
had not known how to manage his Archbishop and Countess, and the story
went flat and slushy like an ill-whipped _zabajone_. She put the book
aside, and wondered whether "Pickwick" really _had_ been alienated by
the impossible Haliburtons; sat thinking, but only of the thing of
_now_--nothing of