"Yes," he answered musingly, "when the daughter who is married was a little girl, Mrs. Page. To think that she's a woman and a wife! Why, Miss Mary and I were like brother and sister then—how wonderful it would be to meet her now!"
"My daughter's name is Ursula," she demurred. She blinked fast. There was another pause.
"'Ur—Ursula?'" stammered Conrad, with the precursory sinking of an awful fear. "Miss Mary not the eldest? ... But surely at Rose Villa she was the eldest at home—during that summer, at least?"
"I think there must be some mistake," she quavered; "I have no daughter 'Mary.' I think there must be some mistake."
"Good heavens!" gasped Conrad. He was covered with confusion. "My dear madam, what can I say to you? I—I have been most shamefully deceived. I knew the family of a Dr. Page in Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. I was assured—I was officially misinformed—that they had removed to Redhill. This house was mentioned to me as their residence. I am abased, I can't sufficiently express my regret. Possibly—I'll say 'probably'—my informant was led astray by the sameness of the surname and the profession, but nothing can excuse an error that has caused you so much annoyance. Nothing!" he repeated implacably. "I can only offer you my profoundest, my most contrite apologies."
The lady was now blinking so rapidly that it was dazzling to watch her.
"My husband never practised in Sweetbay," the said. "My husband's name is 'Napoleon Page.' We had never seen Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. Our house was not called 'Rose Villa.' Oh dear no! I'm afraid there must be some mistake."
"Obviously," cried Conrad; "it overwhelms me. I shall severely reprimand the person who—who is responsible. Permit me to thank you for the patience, the infinite courtesy with which you have listened to my—my totally irrelevant reminiscences. I— Pray don't trouble to ring, madam!"
His cheeks were hot when he gained the step. He walked towards the station swiftly, eager to leave "Home Rest" and Redhill far behind. Long after the train, for which he was obliged to wait, had started, the incident continued to distress him. He smarted anew in the compartment. He was even denied the unction of feeling he had made a satisfactory exit, and the certainty that the lady would describe his later demeanour as "flurried" annoyed him more than he could say in the presence of his fellow-passengers. To fall into the mistake was natural, he argued, but he wished ardently that he had extricated himself from it with more grace, with more of the leisurely elegance he could display if the situation were to occur again.
Well, he had done with his search for Mary! He said he abandoned it in disgust, and was still firm on the point when he reached Mowbray Lodge. He began to reconsider packing his portmanteaux. For two days he made no further inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it were, under protest. Yet in England at least he might spend December amid worse surroundings than Sweetbay presented now; he owned that. From the chief thoroughfares the last speck of mud had long since been removed; the pink sidewalks shone as spotless as when he trod them in October. The air was tender, there was an azure sky, a sunlit sea curled innocently upon the beach. Yes, of a truth, he might fare worse. If it were not for the dulness, he could scarcely fare better. On the third afternoon, as he sauntered through the High Street, it occurred to him that it could do no harm to announce his failure to the mirthful postmistress. He did not pledge himself to resume his efforts, but—— It certainly was very dull, and if he were more explicit she might be able to give him another hint.