wanted to see just how far she had gone. "For example," he tested, "are there—by any chance—other drerms?"
Chatteris gave no sign at the phrase. Melville dismissed his suspicion. "What do you mean—other dreams?" asked Chatteris.
"Is there conceivably another way—another sort of life—some other aspect———?"
"It's out of the question," said Chatteris. He added, rather remarkably, "Adeline's awfully good."
My cousin Melville acquiesced silently in Adeline's goodness.
"All this, you know, is a mood. My life is made for me—and it's a very good life. It's better than I deserve."
"Heaps," said Melville.
"Much," said Chatteris defiantly.
"Ever so much," indorsed Melville.
"Let's talk of other things," said Chatteris. "It's what even the street boys call mawbid nowadays to doubt for a moment the absolute final all-this-and-nothing-else-in-the-worldishness of whatever you happen to be doing."
My cousin Melville, however, could think of no other sufficiently interesting topic. "You left them all right at Sandgate?" he asked, after a pause.
"Except little Bunting."
"Seedy?"
"Been fishing."
"Of course. Breezes and the spring tides. . . . And Miss Waters?"
Chatteris shot a suspicious glance at him. He af-
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