"I have always suspected that the great secret of life would be almost too simple when once solved," says the Prof.
"It only needed a bit of thought," says the chit.
Then Oswald must of had a sudden pang of fear. He flew over and examined the lock and all the front surface of his treasure. He was looking for signs of rough work, thinking she might of broken into it in some coarse manner. But not a scratch could he find. He looked up at Lydia out of eyes moist with gratitude.
"You wonderful, wonderful woman!" says he, and any one could know he meant it from the heart out.
Lydia was still superior and languid, and covered up a slight yawn. She said she was glad if any little thing she could do had made life pleasanter for him. This has been such a perfectly simple thing—very, very far from wonderful.
Oswald now begun to caper round the room like an Airedale pup, and says let's have the keys and open the trunk up, so he can believe his own eyes.
Then Lydia trifled once more with a human soul. She froze in deep thought a long minute then says:
"Oh, dear! Now what did I do with those wretched old keys?"
Oswald froze, too, with a new agony. Lydia put a hand to her pale forehead and seemed to try to remember. There was an awful silence. Oswald was dashed over the cliff again.
"Can't you think?" says the wounded man. "Can't you remember? Try! Try!"