"And Dr. Vereker?"

"Oh, of course _he_ had--twice at least. The times we saw it, mother
and I. He went too.... We-e-e-ell, there's nothing in that!" (We can
only hope again our spelling conveys the way the word _well_ was
prolonged.)

"Nothing at all. Why should there be? What a nice fellow Vereker is!"

"My medical adviser? Oh, _he's_ all right. Never mind him; talk about
mother."

"They must be very nearly at Rheims by now." This is mere obedience
to orders on the Major's part. He feels no real interest in what he
is saying.

"How rum it must be!" says Sally, with grave consideration. And the
Major's "What?" evolves that "it" means marrying a second husband.

"Going through it all over again when you've done it once before,"
continues this young philosopher. The Major thinks of asking why it
should be rummer the second time than the first, but decides not to,
and sips his toddy, and pats the hand that is under his. In a hazy,
fossil-like way he perceives that to a young girl's mind the "rumness"
of a second husband is exactly proportionate to the readiness of its
acceptance of the first. Unity is just as intrinsic a quality of
a first husband as the colour of his eyes or hair. Moreover, he is
expected to outlive you. Above all, he is perfectly natural and a
matter of course. We discern in all this a sneaking tribute to an
idea of a hereafter; but the Major didn't go so far as that.

"She looked very jolly over it," said he, retreating on generalities.
"So did he."

"Gaffer Fenwick? I should think so indeed! Well he might!" Then, after
a moment's consideration: "He looked like my idea of Sir Richard
Grenville. It's only an idea. I forget what he did. Elizabethan
johnny."

"What do you call him? Gaffer Fenwick? You're a nice, respectable young
monkey! Well, he's not half a bad-looking fellow; well set up." But
none of this, though good in itself, is what Sally sat down to talk
about. A sudden change in her manner, a new earnestness, makes the
Major stop an incipient yawn he is utilising as an exordium to a hint
that we ought to go to bed, and become quite wakeful to say: "I will
tell you all I can, my child." For Sally has thrust aside talk of the
day's events, making no more of the wedding ceremony than of "Charley's
Aunt," with: "_Why_ did my father and mother part? You _will_ tell me
now, won't you, Major dear?"

Lying was necessary--inevitable. But he would minimise it. There was
always the resourc