"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. I have yet another. ’ ‘Oh, is he?’ Gerald said grimly. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. “Splendid it must be to be a composer.
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