reamed by Algernon Fenwick, that big hairy man
at the wine-merchant's in Bishopsgate, who has a beautiful wife and a
daughter who swims like a fish. One of the many might-have-beens that
were not! But a decision against its reality demanded time, and his
revival of memory was only forty-eight hours old so far.

Of course, he would have liked, of all things, to make full
confession, and talk it all out--this quasi-dream--to Rosalind; but
he could not be sure how much he could safely bring to light, how much
would be best concealed. He could not run the _slightest_ risk when
the thing at stake was her peace of mind. No, no--Harrisson be hanged!
Him and his money, too.

So, though things kept coming to his recollection, he could hold his
peace, and did so. There was nothing to come--not likely to be--that
could unsay that revelation that he had been a married man, and did
not know of his wife's death; not even that he and she had been
divorced, which would have been nearly as bad. He knew the worst of
it, at any rate, and Rosalind need never know it if he kept it all
to himself, best and worst.

So that day passed, and there was nothing to note about it, unless
we mention that Sally was actually kept out of the Channel by
Neptune's little white ponies aforesaid, which spoiled the swimming
water--though, of course, it wasn't rough--backed by the fact that
these little sudden showers wetted you through, right through your
waterproof, before you knew where you were. Dr. Conrad came in as
usual in the evening, reporting that his mother was "rather better."
It was a discouraging habit she had, when she was not known to have
been any worse than usual. This good lady always caught Commiseration
napping, if ever that quality took forty winks. The doctor was very
silent this evening, imbibing Sally without comment. However, St.
Sennans was drawing to a close for all others. That was enough to
account for it, Sally thought. It was the last day but one, and poor
Prosy couldn't be expected to accept her own view--that the awful
jolliness of being back at Krakatoa Villa would even compensate--more
than compensate--for the pangs of parting with the Saint. Sally's
optimism was made of a stuff that would wash, or was all wool.

According to her own account, she had spent the whole day wondering
whether the battle between Tishy and her mother had come off. She
said so last thing of all to _her_ mother as she decanted the melted
paraff