powerful
spectacle-lenses. He blew his nose like a salute of one gun in the
course of his polishing. When _we_ blow _our_ nose, we hush our
pocket-handkerchief back into its home, and ignore it a little. The
Baron didn't. He continued polishing on an unalloyed corner through
the whole of a very perceptible amount of chat about the tricks memory
plays us, and the probable depth of the blue water below. Rosalind's
uneasiness continued. It grew worse, when the Baron, suddenly
replacing his spectacles and fixing his eyes firmly on her husband,
said sternly, "Yes, it is a bustle!" but was relieved when equally
suddenly, he shouted in a stentorian voice, "We shall meed lader,"
and took his leave.

"He's a jolly fellow, the Baron, anyhow!" said Fenwick. "I wonder
whether they heard him at Altdorf?"

"Every word, I should think. But how I should like to see the Mr.
Harrisson he took you for!"

This was really part of a policy of nettle-grasping, which continued.
She always felt happier after defying a difficulty than after
flinching. After all, if Gerry's happiness and her own were not motive
enough, consider Sally's. If she should really come to know her
mother's story, Sally might die of it.

Fenwick went on to the ending of the cigar, dreamily wondering,
evidently "bustled" like the Baron. As he blew the last smoke away,
and threw the smoking end down the slope, he repeated her words spoken
a minute before, "_I_ should like to see the Mr. Harrisson he took
me for."

"It would be funny to see oneself as ithers see one. Some power might
gie you the giftie, Gerry. If only we could meet that Mr. Harrisson!"

"Do you remember how we saw our profiles in a glass, and you said,
'I'm sure those are somebody else'? Illogical female!"

"Why was I illogical? I knew they were going to turn out us in the
end. But I was sure I shouldn't be convinced at once." And the talk
wandered away into a sort of paradoxical metaphysics.

But when, later in the evening, this lady was described by confidential
chat at the far end of the salon as that handsome young Mrs. Algernon
Fenwick who was only just married, and whose husband was playing chess
in the smoking-room, and what a pity it was they were not going to
stop over Monday, she thus described, accurately enough, was rather
rejoicing that that handsome Mr. Fenwick, who looked like a Holbein
portrait, was being kept quiet for half an hour, because she wanted to
get a chance for a little