nd, that if
it had not been for Miss Sally Nightingale this perplexity might never
have existed. He satisfied his conscience on the point by a pretext
that Sally was a thing on a pinnacle out of his reach--not for the
likes of him! He made believe that he was at a loss to find a foothold
on his greasy pole, but was seeking one in complete ignorance of what
would be found at the top of it.

This shallow piece of self-deception was ripe for disillusionment when
Sally took its victim out for a walk round to show him the place.
It had the feeblest hold on existence during the remainder of the day,
throughout which our medical friend went on dram-drinking, knowing
the dangers of his nectar-draughts, but as helpless against them as
any other dram-drinker. It broke down completely and finally between
moonrise and midnight--a period that began with Sally calling under
Iggulden's window, "Come out, Dr. Conrad, and see the phosphorescence
in the water; it's going to be quite bright presently," and ended
with, "Good gracious, how late it is! Shan't we catch it?" an
exclamation both contributed to. For it was certainly past eleven
o'clock.

But in that little space it had broken down, that delusion; and the
doctor knew perfectly well, before ten o'clock, certainly, that all
the abstract possible wives of his perplexity meant Sally, and Sally
only. And, further, that Sally was at every point of the compass--that
she was in the phosphorescence of the sea, and the still golden colour
of the rising moon. That space was full of her, and that each little
wave-splash at their feet said "Sally," and then gave place to another
that said "Sally" again. Poor Prosy!

But what did they _say_, the two of them? Little enough--mere merry
chat. But on his part so rigid a self-constraint underlying it that
we are not sure some of the little waves didn't say--not Sally at all,
but--Miss Nightingale! And a persistent sense of a thought that was
only waiting to be thought as soon as he should be alone--that was
going to run somewhat thus: "How could it come about? That this girl,
whom I idolize till my idolatry is almost pain; this girl who has been
my universe this year past, though I would not confess it; this wonder
whom I judge no man worthy of, myself least of all--that she should be
cancelled, made naught of, hushed down, to be the mate of a poor G.P.;
to visit his patients and leave cards, make up his little accounts,
perhaps! Certainly to l