stand what you mean, Mr. Fenwick. You mean if"--she
hesitated a moment--"if you _could_ recollect."

He nodded a complete yes.

"Just that," said he. "I don't know if it's the millions of dry leaves
sweeping about, or the moon scudding so quick through the clouds, or
the smell of the Atlantic, or the bark coming off the plane-trees, or
the wind blowing the roads into smooth dust-drifts and hard clear-ups
you could eat your dinner off--I don't know what it is, but something
or another on a night of this sort does always seem to bring old times
back, when, as you say, they can be got back on any terms." He
half-laughed, not in earnest. She found something to say, also not
very much in earnest.

"Because we remember nights of the sort when we were small, and that
brings them back."

"Come, I say now, Mrs. Nightingale! As if we couldn't remember all
sorts of nights, and nothing comes back about them. It's this
particular sort of night does the job."

"Did you think you remembered something, Mr. Fenwick?" There was
anxiety in her voice, but no need to conceal it. It would as readily
pass muster for anxiety that he _should_ have remembered something as
that he shouldn't.

"I can hardly go so far as that. But that joke of your little pussycat
about the sweethearts got mixed with the smell of the wind and the
chrysanthemums and dahlias and sunflowers." He pressed his fingers
hard on his eyes again. "Do you know, there's pain in it--worse than
you'd think! The half-idea that comes is not painful in itself--rather
the contrary--but it gives my brain a twist at the point at which I
can recall no more. Yes, it's painful!"

"But there _was_ a half-idea? Forgive me if it gives you pain, and
don't try. Only I'm not sure you ought not to try when the chance
comes, for your own sake."

"Oh, I don't mind trying. This time it was something about a front
garden and a girl and a dog-cart." He had not taken his hands from his
eyes. Now he did so, brushing them on his hair and forehead as before.
"I get no nearer," said he.

"A front garden and a girl and a dog-cart," thus Miss Sally saucily,
coming out with the letter. "Did you have a very touching parting, Mr.
Fenwick? Now, mind you don't forget to post it. I wouldn't trust you!"
He took the letter from her, but seemed too _distrait_ to notice her
little piece of levity; then, still speaking as if in distress or
pain, he said:

"It must have been some front garden, long ago. T