"I'm sure I've got the name wrong," she says, with revived wakefulness in her voice.
But Sally is murmuring to herself—"Perhaps recall my mother, Mrs. Rosalind Nightingale—Rosalind in brackets—by her maiden name of—by the same name—who married the late Mr. Graythorpe in India—I say, mother...."
"Yes, little goose."
"How am I to put all that?"
"Go to sleep! I don't think you'll find that family very—coming. My impression is you had much better leave it alone. What good would it do you to find out who Mr. Fenwick was? And perhaps have him go away to Australia!"
"Why Australia?"
Oh dear, what mistakes Rosalind did make! Why on earth need she name the place she knew Gerry did go to? America would have done just as well.
"Australia—New Zealand—America—anywhere!" But Sally doesn't mind—has fallen back on her letter-sketch.
"Apologizing for troubling you, believe me, dear madam, yours faithfully—or very faithfully, or truly—Rosalind Nightingale....
No; I should not like Mr. Fenwick to go away anywhere. No more would you. I want him here, for us. So do you!"