re. He would
come in sometimes. Such a nice queer old man!'

'I mean the son,' said Mr Brindley.

'Oh yes,' she answered. 'I knew young Mr Simon too.' A slight
hesitation, and then: 'Of course!' Another hesitation. 'Why?'

'Nothing,' said Mr Brindley. 'Only he's dead.'

'You don't mean to say he's dead?' she exclaimed.

'Day before yesterday, in Italy,' said Mr Brindley ruthlessly.

Miss Annie Brett's manner certainly changed. It seemed almost to become
natural and unecstatic.

'I suppose it will be in the papers?' she ventured.

'It's in the London paper.'

'Well I never!' she muttered.

'A long time, I should think, since he was in this part of the world,'
said Mr Brindley. 'When did YOU last see him?'

He was exceedingly skilful, I considered.

She put the back of her hand over her mouth, and bending her head
slightly and lowering her eyelids, gazed reflectively at the counter.

'It was once when a lot of us went to Ilam,' she answered quietly. 'The
St Luke's lot, YOU know.'

'Oh!' cried Mr Brindley, apparently startled. 'The St Luke's lot?'

'Yes.'

'How came he to go with you?'

'He didn't go with us. He was there--stopping there, I suppose.'

'Why, I believe I remember hearing something about that,' said Mr
Brindley cunningly. 'Didn't he take you out in a boat?'

A very faint dark crimson spread over the face of Miss Annie Brett. It
could not be called a blush, but it was as like a blush as was possible
to her. The phenomenon, as I could see from his eyes, gave Mr Brindley
another shock.

'Yes,' she replied. 'Sally was there as well.'

Then a silence, during which the commercial traveller could be heard
reading from the newspaper.

'When was that?' gently asked Mr Brindley.

'Don't ask ME when it was, Mr Brindley,' she answered nervously. 'It's
ever so long ago. What did he die of?'

'Don't know.'

Miss Annie Brett opened her mouth to speak, and did not speak. There
were tears in her reddened eyes. I felt very awkward, and I think that
Mr Brindley also felt awkward. But I was glad. Those moist eyes caused
me a thrill. There was after all some humanity in Miss Annie Brett.
Yes, she had after all floated on the bosom of the lake with Simon
Fuge. The least romantic of persons, she had yet felt romance. If she
had touched Simon Fuge, Simon Fuge had touched her. She had memories.
Once she had lived. I pictured her younger. I sought in her face the
soft remains of youthfulness. I invente