"This it is as what you wants to see, Sir Jarvy," observed Galleygo, jogging his master's shoulder by way of jogging his memory. "Them 'ere cables and hanchors, and that 'ere mizzen-mast, with a rear-admiral's flag a-flying, is rigged in this old church, in honour of our friend Admiral Blue, as was; but as is now dead and gone this many a long year."
"Admiral of the Blue," repeated Sir Gervaise coldly. "You're mistaken, Galleygo, I'm an admiral of the white, and admiral of the fleet in the bargain. I know my own rank, sir."
"I knows that as well as you does yourself, Sir Jarvy," answered Galleygo, whose grammar had rather become confirmed than improved, by time, "or as well as the First Lord himself. But Admiral Blue was once your best friend, and I doesn't at all admire at your forgetting him—one of these long nights you'll be forgetting me."
"I beg your pardon, Galleygo; I rather think not. I remember you, when a very young man."
"Well, and so you mought remember Admiral Blue, if you'd just try. I know'd ye both when young luffs, myself."
"This is a painful scene," observed the stranger to Sir Wycherly, with a melancholy smile. "This gentleman is now at the tomb of his dearest friend; and yet, as you see, he appears to have lost all recollection that such a person ever existed. For what do we live, if a few brief years are to render our memories such vacant spots!"
"Has he been long in this way?" asked Lady Wychecombe, with interest.
The stranger started at the sound of her voice. He looked intently into the face of the still fair speaker, before he answered; then he bowed, and replied—
"He has been failing these five years, though his last visit here was much less painful than this. But are our own memories perfect?—Surely, I have seen that face before!—These young ladies, too—"
"Geoffrey—dear cousin Geoffrey!" exclaimed Lady Wychecombe, holding out both her hands. "It is—it must be the Duke of Glamorgan, Wycherly!"