"Anyhow," he says, with a rather nervous smile, "I hope that the world has been treating you kindly--that things have gone well with you since those dear old days when you were so good to me." There is an instant's pause--perhaps he would not have noticed it had not his suspicions been already roused--before the husband, again taking upon him the task of replying, answers, with a sort of laboured carelessness: "Oh, yes, thanks; we do not complain. It has not been a very rosy time for landlords lately, as you are aware." "And _you_?" cries the wife, striking in with a species of hurry in her voice--a hurry due, as his instinct tells him, to the fact of her fear of his entering into more detailed inquiries. "And _you_? We must not forget you. Have you been well, flourishing, all this long time? Do you still live with your----" She stops abruptly. It is apparent that she has entirely forgotten what was the species of relation with whom he lived. There is a little tinge of bitterness in his heart, though not in his tone, as he supplies the missing word "aunt." After all, he had forgotten _her_ name; why should not she forget his aunt? "With my aunt? Well, I never exactly lived with her; I made, and make my headquarters there when I am in England, which is not very often. I have been a rolling stone; I have rolled pretty well round the world since we parted." They do not care in the least where he has rolled, nor how much nor how little moss he has collected in the process. They are only thinking how they can best get rid of him. But the past is strong upon him; he cannot let them slide out of his life again for another ten--twenty years perhaps, without finding out from them something about his five merry playmates. His inquiry must needs be a vague one. Who dares ask specifically after this or that man, woman, or even child, when ten years have rolled their tides between? "And you are all well?" he says, with a certain wistfulness lurking in the indifferent _banal_ phrase. "Dear me, what a jolly party we used to be! I suppose that--that they are all out in the world now?" His eyes are fixed apprehensively upon the mother of those young comrades, to whom he thus cautiously alludes. Perhaps, carefully as he has worded his question, he may have touched some terrible raw. Her face is turned aside, presenting only its profile to him, but she answers almost at once: "Yes; we are all scattered now. Charlie is planting oranges in Florida--he does not mind the heat; you know he always said no weather could be too hot for him; and Tom has an ostrich farm in Australia; and Rose has been married two years--she has a dear little baby; and Miriam is married too; we have just come down from her wedding." "Miriam married!" repeats Burgoyne in a tone of wonder. "Miriam with a husband instead of a white rat!" The mother laughs. It is the first time that he has heard her laugh, and she used to laugh so often. "I think she likes the exchange."