y my side a little bottle of champagne, potted meats,
Devonshire cream, and dainty biscuits of various kinds, she left me. The
next day I was kicked out and carried in a carriage to Dawlish. I had a
nice little dinner--tender beefsteak, new potatoes, asparagus and
spinach, a bottle of sound port and a ripe stilton. After this, somehow
or other, I had a restless night. I was tormented with strange dreams in
which appeared a person whom I had never seen in my life. Certainly not
that I can remember. He was an old man wearing an immense opal on his
right-hand little finger. I had never seen such an opal before. The
dream was confused, I can only give these facts about it.

Let's see how I am getting on. Mysterious parentage. School life. Old
woman in omnibus, ghastly-comical agreement, heavy dinner and consequent
nightmare. Is that all? No, I have forgotten the advertisement for the
Charing Cross Hotel. All told, I can't say that there is much in my
story. Must get on. More heavy dinners, more nightmares. Went to
Brighton. Saw Doctor who said, "Your nerves are out of order, you are
suffering from a malady called Incipient Detearia. What do you drink?"

"Nothing but port, maraschino, and champagne."

"Quite right. Persevere. I am going away for a fortnight. Continue your
diet, and, when I return, I will come and see you again. By that time
your malady will have reached an acute stage. By the way, do you ever
eat?"

"Not as much as I drink. I sometimes have a plate of turtle soup, but
chiefly as an excuse for a glass of punch."

"Quite so. Good day."

After this, my dreams became more and more confused, and I grew quite
ill. Then I met a gentleman at the _table d'hote_, called Captain
CHARLES. He was most kind, asked me on board his yacht, and, when we had
got to Dieppe, said,--

"Miss ASCENA, I think we both understand each other. I am afraid I have
done very wrong in kidnapping you. Well, now, I am going to put a
question to you, straight and fair. When the yacht slipped anchor at
Brighton, I had a marriage-licence in our names, in a morocco case in my
pocket, upon which any clergyman on the Continent is bound to act. It's
no Gretna-Green business, I can assure you."

"I'll talk about it this afternoon, if I am well enough," I said,
holding on to a rope (it was very rough), and, feeling myself turning
deadly pale.

"Are you married already?" he asked, with a something like a choking in
his mouth.

"No, no, no,