"Don't you," I asked, "think it IS quite possible that your brain invented all those memories of what—what happened before that accident?"
He drew a sharp sigh.
"You make me feel very guilty."
"That's exactly what I tried to make you NOT feel!"
"I know, yes. That's why I feel so guilty."
We had paused in our walk. He stood nervously prodding the hard wet sand with his walking-stick.
"In a way," he said, "your theory was quite right. But—it didn't go far enough. It's not only possible, it's a fact, that I didn't see those signs in those hands. I never examined those hands. They weren't there. I wasn't there. I haven't an uncle in Hampshire, even. I never had."
I, too, prodded the sand.
"Well," I said at length, "I do feel rather a fool."
"I've no right even to beg your pardon, but—''