"Or downstairs."
"Yes," I said, "it's equally painful and dislocating."
"But you're not the only one," she said, "who's forgotten things. I've done quite a lot in that line myself. I've forgotten the measles and sugar and Lord RHONDDA and the Irish trouble and your Aunt Matilda, and where I left my pince-nez and what's become of the letters I received this morning, and whom I promised to meet where and when to talk over what. You needn't think you're the only forgetter in the world. I can meet you on that and any other ground."
"But," I said, "the thing you made me forget—"
"I didn't."
"You did."
"No, for you hadn't remembered it."
"Well, anyhow I shall put it on to you, and I want you to realise that it's not like one of your trivialities—"
"This man," said Francesca, "refers to his Aunt Matilda and Lord RHONDDA as trivialities."
"It is not," I continued inexorably, "like one of your trivialities. It's a most important thing, and it begins with a 'B.'"