I am now prepared to believe there are many others. Whenever I live six
months in a place I am ready to admit its existence."

He refilled and lighted his pipe, then he said, "I don't want to invade
private precincts, but after hearing that I'd like to see the portrait.
May I?"

I delved into the mate's chest, and unwrapped the newspaper page.

For some moments he gazed at it, and I began to wonder whether it held
the same magic infatuation for every one else that it did for me. His
expression was enigmatical and his voice, when he spoke at last, was
puzzled.

"It's very hackneyed," he said, "but we must go on saying it. The world
is an extremely small place."

"What do you mean?" I demanded.

He was still looking at the picture and he spoke reflectively as though
I had not been present.

"The loveliest girl in Dixie. They all said so."

"In Dixie," I echoed eagerly, "Do you mean you know her?"

"I've danced with her a dozen times," he answered, "and yet I can't say
I know her. I remember that all the men were paying court, and I fancy I
should have been smitten like the rest except that my wife had just
accepted me, and I had only one pair of eyes."

"For God's sake," I said very quietly, "let me have all that you know
about her--name--address."

"It was four years ago," he explained. "We were all at Bar Harbor. She
was visiting at one of the cottages there. I was so engrossed with my
own courtship that other girls, even this wonderful one, didn't count
with me. I don't know where she lived, except that she was from the
South. Her name was Frances." He broke off and an expression of extreme
vexation clouded his face.

"I know her first name," I urged him. "It's the surname I need."

"Yes," he responded, "of course. Her surname was----" Again he halted
and an embarrassed flush spread over his cheeks and forehead. Then he
spoke impulsively. "You must bear with me. It's ludicrous, but the name
has slipped me. It's just at the tip of my tongue, yet I can't call it.
This thing is inexcusable, but ever since that first trip to the Islands
I've been subject to it. Names which I know perfectly, elude
me--sometimes for a few moments, sometimes for weeks."

"Can't you remember it," I demanded insistently, "if you cudgel your
brain? I don't care how mercilessly you cudgel it. I must know."

He nodded. "I quite understand. It has slipped me. I shall remember it
by morning, but--" his voice became graver.

"But