ce as Wrikton and
this river and this window. There couldn't be, could there? Queen and
I motored over here once from Paulle--it's not so very far--and
we agreed that it didn't really exist. I never forgot it; I was
determined to come here again some time, and that's why I chose this
very spot when half Harley Street stood up and told me I must go away
somewhere after my cure and be by myself, far from the pernicious
influence of friends. I think I gave you a very fair idea of the town
yesterday. But I didn't show you the funniest thing in it--the inside
of a solicitor's office. You remember the large grey stone house in
Mill Street--the grass street, you know--with 'Simpover and Simpover'
on the brass plate, and the strip of green felt nailed all round the
front door to keep the wind out in winter. Well, it's all in the
same key inside. And I don't know which is the funniest, the Russian
dancers, or the green felt round the front door, or Mr. Simpover, or
the other Mr. Simpover. I'm sure neither of those men is real, though
they both somehow have children. You remember the yellow cards that
you see in so many of the windows: 'A MAN has gone from this house to
fight for King and Country!'--the elder Mr. Simpover thinks it would
be rather boastful to put the card in the window, so he keeps it on
the mantelpiece in his private office. It's for his son. And yet
I assure you the father isn't real. He is like the town, he simply
couldn't be real."

"What have _you_ been up to in the private office?" G.J. asked
lightly.

"Making my will."

"What for?"

"Isn't it the proper thing to do? I've left everything to you."

"You haven't, Con!" he protested. There was absolutely no tranquillity
about this woman. With her, the disconcerting unexpected happened
every five minutes.

"Did you suppose I was going to send any of my possessions back to my
tropical relatives in South America? I've left everything to you to do
what you like with. Squander it if you like, but I expect you'll give
it to war charities. Anyhow, I thought it would be safest in your
hands."

He retorted in a tone quietly and sardonically challenging:

"But I was under the impression you were cured."

"Of my neurasthenia?"

"Yes."

"I believe I am. I gained thirteen pounds in the nursing home, and
slept like a greengrocer. In fact, the Weir-Mitchell treatment, with
modern improvements of course, enjoyed a marvellous triumph in my
case. But that's not