and I had rhapsodised to him by the hour about Cousin Rosalys. “But you, old chap, you’re to be envied,” he would cry. “Here you are in the same town with her, by Jove! You can see her, you can plead your cause. Think of that. I wish I had half your luck. Maud is far away in England, buried in a country-house down in Lancashire. She might as well be on another planet, for all the good I get of her. But you—why, you can see your Cousin Rosalys this very hour if you like! Oh, heavens, what wouldn’t I give for half your luck!” The wheel of Time, the wheel of Time! Everett and Maud are married, but Cousin Rosalys and I.... Heigh-ho! I wonder whether, in our thoughts of ancient days, it is more what we remember or what we forget that makes them sweet? Anyhow, for the moment, we forget the dismal things that have happened since. Yes, I was in the same town with her, by Jove; I could see her. And indeed I did see her many times every week. Like the villain in a melodrama, I led a double life. When I was not disguised as a Bohemian, in a velvet jacket and a wide-awake, smoking and talking and holding wassail with my boon companions, you might have observed a young man attired in the height of the prevailing fashion (his top-hat and varnished boots flashing fire in the eyes of the Roman populace), going to call on his Aunt Elizabeth. And his Aunt Elizabeth, pleased by such dutiful attentions, rewarded him with frequent invitations to dinner. Her other guests would be old ladies like herself, and old gentlemen, and priests, priests, priests. So that Rosalys and I, the only young ones present, were naturally paired together. After dinner Rosalys would play and sing, while I hung over her piano. Oh, how beautifully she played Chopin! How ravishingly she sang! Schubert’s Wohin, and Rôslein, Rôslein, Rôslein roth; and Gounod’s Sérénade and his Barcarolle: “Dites la jeune belle, Où voulez-vous aller?”