to his feet, and looked at me. A deep flush suddenly
overspread his faded face, and he abruptly sat down again, as if
conscious of having betrayed a weakness which he would fain have
concealed. It was plain, pitiably plain, that he was aware of his own
defect of memory, and that he was bent on hiding it from the observation
of his friends.

Thus far he had appealed to my compassion only. But the words he had
just said--few as they were--roused my curiosity instantly to the
highest pitch. The birthday dinner had already become the one event in
the past, at which I looked back with strangely-mixed feelings of hope
and distrust. And here was the birthday dinner unmistakably proclaiming
itself as the subject on which Mr. Candy had something important to say
to me!

I attempted to help him out once more. But, this time, my own interests
were at the bottom of my compassionate motive, and they hurried me on a
little too abruptly, to the end I had in view.

"It's nearly a year now," I said, "since we sat at that pleasant table.
Have you made any memorandum--in your diary, or otherwise--of what you
wanted to say to me?"

Mr. Candy understood the suggestion, and showed me that he understood
it, as an insult.

"I require no memorandum, Mr. Blake," he said, stiffly enough. "I am not
such a very old man, yet--and my memory (thank God) is to be thoroughly
depended on!"

It is needless to say that I declined to understand that he was offended
with me.

"I wish I could say the same of my memory," I answered. "When I try to
think of matters that are a year old, I seldom find my remembrance as
vivid as I could wish it to be. Take the dinner at Lady Verinder's, for
instance----"

Mr. Candy brightened up again, the moment the allusion passed my lips.

"Ah! the dinner, the dinner at Lady Verinder's!" he exclaimed, more
eagerly than ever. "I have got something to say to you about that."

His eyes looked at me again with the painful expression of inquiry,
so wistful, so vacant, so miserably helpless to see. He was evidently
trying hard, and trying in vain, to recover the lost recollection.
"It was a very pleasant dinner," he burst out suddenly, with an air
of saying exactly what he wanted to say. "A very pleasant dinner, Mr.
Blake, wasn't it?" He nodded and smiled, and appeared to think, poor
fellow, that he had succeeded in concealing the total failure of his
memory, by a well-timed exertion of his own presence of mind.

It wa