"Ah! the dinner, the dinner at Lady Verinder's!" he exclaimed, more

eagerly than ever. "I have got something to say to you about that."

His eyes looked at me again with the painful expression of inquiry,

so wistful, so vacant, so miserably helpless to see. He was evidently

trying hard, and trying in vain, to recover the lost recollection.

"It was a very pleasant dinner," he burst out suddenly, with an air

of saying exactly what he wanted to say. "A very pleasant dinner, Mr.

Blake, wasn't it?" He nodded and smiled, and appeared to think, poor

fellow, that he had succeeded in concealing the total failure of his

memory, by a well-timed exertion of his own presence of mind.

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It was so distressing that I at once shifted the talk--deeply as I was

interested in his recovering the lost remembrance--to topics of local

interest.

Here, he got on glibly enough. Trumpery little scandals and quarrels in

the town, some of them as much as a month old, appeared to recur to his

memory readily. He chattered on, with something of the smooth gossiping

fluency of former times. But there were moments, even in the full flow

of his talkativeness, when he suddenly hesitated--looked at me for

a moment with the vacant inquiry once more in his eyes--controlled

himself--and went on again. I submitted patiently to my martyrdom (it is

surely nothing less than martyrdom to a man of cosmopolitan sympathies,

to absorb in silent resignation the news of a country town?) until the

clock on the chimney-piece told me that my visit had been prolonged

beyond half an hour. Having now some right to consider the sacrifice as

complete, I rose to take leave. As we shook hands, Mr. Candy reverted to

the birthday festival of his own accord.

"I am so glad we have met again," he said. "I had it on my mind--I

really had it on my mind, Mr. Blake, to speak to you. About the dinner

at Lady Verinder's, you know? A pleasant dinner--really a pleasant

dinner now, wasn't it?"

On repeating the phrase, he seemed to feel hardly as certain of having

prevented me from suspecting his lapse of memory, as he had felt on

the first occasion. The wistful look clouded his face again: and, after

apparently designing to accompany me to the street door, he suddenly

changed his mind, rang the bell for the servant, and remained in the

drawing-room.

I went slowly down the doctor's stairs, feeling the disheartening

conviction that he really had something to say which it was vitally

important to me to hear, and that he was morally incapable of saying

it. The effort of remembering that he wanted to speak to me was, but

too evidently, the only effort that his enfeebled memory was now able to

achieve.




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