ett for marrying any one else? The books that have come down to us
make out lovers of your time more jealous than fond, and that is what
makes me ask. It would be a great relief to me if I could feel sure
that you were not in the least jealous of my great-grandfather for
marrying your sweetheart. May I tell my great-grandmother's picture
when I go to my room that you quite forgive her for proving false to
you?"

Will the reader believe it, this coquettish quip, whether the speaker
herself had any idea of it or not, actually touched and with the
touching cured a preposterous ache of something like jealousy which I
had been vaguely conscious of ever since Mrs. Leete had told me of
Edith Bartlett's marriage. Even while I had been holding Edith
Bartlett's great-granddaughter in my arms, I had not, till this moment,
so illogical are some of our feelings, distinctly realized that but for
that marriage I could not have done so. The absurdity of this frame of
mind could only be equalled by the abruptness with which it dissolved
as Edith's roguish query cleared the fog from my perceptions. I laughed
as I kissed her.

"You may assure her of my entire forgiveness," I said, "although if it
had been any man but your great-grandfather whom she married, it would
have been a very different matter."

On reaching my chamber that night I did not open the musical telephone
that I might be lulled to sleep with soothing tunes, as had become my
habit. For once my thoughts made better music than even twentieth
century orchestras discourse, and it held me enchanted till well toward
morning, when I fell asleep.

Chapter 28

"It's a little after the time you told me to wake you, sir. You did not
come out of it as quick as common, sir."

The voice was the voice of my man Sawyer. I started bolt upright in bed
and stared around. I was in my underground chamber. The mellow light of
the lamp which always burned in the room when I occupied it illumined
the familiar walls and furnishings. By my bedside, with the glass of
sherry in his hand which Dr. Pillsbury prescribed on first rousing from
a mesmeric sleep, by way of awakening the torpid physical functions,
stood Sawyer.

"Better take this right off, sir," he said, as I stared blankly at him.
"You look kind of flushed like, sir, and you need it."

I tossed off the liquor and began to realize what had happened to me.
It was, of course, very plain. All that about the twentieth century had