"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am Tamsin Dearlove."
The remark made by Diogenes under somewhat like circumstances would have been ungallant. In the process of searching for a better the sick man fell asleep again.
What happened on his next return to consciousness shall be given in his own words. He told me the story last autumn:—
"You see," he explained shyly, "I have not, my dear young friend, that ingenuity of phrase which I so admire in you" (I protest I have not the heart to suppress this tribute), "but seeing that, in such a case, experience counts for something—and naturally, at your age, you have yet to learn what it is to propose to a woman—I think I had better tell you exactly what happened, the more so as it is a matter which, if, as you assure me, necessary to your chronicle, I desire to be related with accuracy. I am not, you understand, in the least reflecting on your love of truth, but, after all, I did, as the obnoxious phrase has it, 'propose' to Tamsin, whereas you—ahem—did not."
I am convinced my friend meant to say "would not have had the infernal impudence," but softened the expression, being habitually careful of the feelings of others.
"When I awoke again," he went on, "she was seated in the window, knitting. I lay for a long while watching her—indeed, this is my first impression—before I made any sign. The sunshine—it was morning—fell on her head as she bent over her needles, and emphasised that peculiar bloom of gold which (you may have noticed) her brown locks possess. Her lashes, too, as they drooped upon a cheek pale (as I could perceive) beyond its wont, had a glimmer of the same golden tint. Altogether I thought her more beautiful than I ever imagined; and to this day," he added in an outburst of confidence, "I frequently decoy her to a seat in the sunlight, that I may taste a renewal of the sensations I enjoyed that morning. Some day, perhaps, you will be better able to sympathise with this caprice.
"I had been lying thus for some time, luxuriously drinking in her loveliness, when her eyes lifted and met mine. And then—well, I can hardly tell you what happened then, except that I do not believe a word was spoken on either side. I suppose our eyes had told enough. Anyhow, the next thing I remember is that my dear girl's head was on my breast, and one arm flung across the pillow that supported my head. I have a dim recollection, too, of trying to smooth her hair, and finding my strength too feeble even for that. That is all, I think; except that we were ludicrously happy, of course—Tamsin smiling with moist eyes, while I lay still and let the joy of it trickle in my veins. I am extremely obliged to you, my dear young friend, for not laughing outright at this confession. It encourages me to add, for exactness, that Tamsin kept putting her hand up to the back of her head. She has since explained that she felt sure her 'back-hair' was coming down. Women are curious creatures.
"Let me resume. In the midst of what used to be called a 'love passage,' the door opened, and in walked Peter Dearlove with a basin of beef-tea. So quietly did he enter, that the first announcement of his presence was a terrific sound which my experience can compare with nothing unless it be whooping-cough—the whooping-cough of a robust adult.
"'This,' he remarked, setting down the tray and eyeing Tamsin severely, 'ain't nussin' properly so called.'