“My memory,” said the trickster, slowly, passing his hand over his brow; “why, what’s the matter with it?”
“It doesn’t seem quite so good as it was,” said the lady, affectionately. “Never mind, my memory will have to do for both.”
There was enough emphasis on this last sentence to send a little chill through the captain’s frame.
He said nothing, but keeping his eye on his plate attacked his frugal meal in silence, and soon after-wards went upstairs to bed to think out his position.
If his own memory was defective, Mrs. Church’s was certainly redundant. When he came hurrying in to dinner next day she remembered that he had told her he should not be home to that meal. He was ungallant enough to contemplate a raid upon hers; she, with a rare thoughtfulness, had already eaten it. He went to the “Thorn,” and had some cold salt beef, and cursed the ingenious Nibletts, now on his way to London, sky-high.
Mrs. Banks came in the next evening with her daughter, and condoled with the housekeeper on the affliction which had already been noised about Seabridge. Mrs. Church, who had accepted her as an ally, but with mental reservations, softly applied a handkerchief to her eyes.
“How are you feeling?” demanded Mrs. Banks, in the voice of one addressing a deaf invalid.
“I’m all right,” said Barber, shortly.
“That’s his pride,” said Mrs. Church, mournfully; “he won’t own to it. He can’t remember anything. He pretends he doesn’t know me.”
“Who are you?” asked the sufferer, promptly.