He felt very lonely. Something of the Christmas spirit descended on him--the true, the unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, after we have directed the last stack of cards, and hurried out aglow with the last parcel, we sit before the bare mantel-piece, discovering that most of our acquaintances have become too advanced to observe the season. We are quite sure it is "advancement," though it looks a little like stinginess. He wondered, as he entered the lane, whether the other child he was remembering would have proved a disappointment too; wondered if the ache in his heart would be intelligible to her, or if he would appear to her absurd. It interested him to wonder. Conjecturing the disposition of the strange woman whose whereabouts he did not know, he endued her with many attributes that he admired, and she moved before his mental vision gradually as a fair and slightly pathetic figure, prepared to be his confidante. He fancied she was unhappy with her husband. At least the sadness of life had touched her enough to tinge her sentiment with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit on rainy days. It surprised him that he had made no attempt to trace her; his curiosity was awake. Many things were more unlikely than that she was living in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he was in two minds about ringing the bell and trying to gather information from the present occupants. He would probably have obeyed the impulse, but while he hesitated the householder came out--a middle-aged little man, with a sanguine complexion, and gaiters. Conrad accosted him. "Excuse me," he began. The gentleman saluted with his crop. "'Morning," he said. "I was looking at your bell with the idea of troubling you with an inquiry about a 'missing friend.' May I ask if you happen to know the address of your predecessor here--Dr. Page?" "Who?" said the little man briskly. "Dr. Page." "No. Don't know the name. Took the place of people called--er--Greames.... Agents might tell you--Chipper and Stokes in the High Street. Page? Doctor? N-no." He shook his head. "Sorry." "I thank you." "Not at all. Neighbours, I think, sir? For long?" "No; it's a very temporary pleasure of mine," said Conrad. "Congratulate you," said the little man. "If your friend was a doctor, probably knew better than to stop. Much misled myself. Recommended here for my health. Most in-_ju_-rious! Damp, sir, Sweetbay is damp. They call it a 'humid atmosphere'; 'humid atmosphere' be damned, sir! Take your clothes off the peg in the morning and wring 'em out. That's not a humid atmosphere--it's a death-trap." "You astonish me," said Conrad. "I understood the climate was so salubrious that the inhabitants would all live to be a hundred if they didn't die of the dulness young." He lifted his hat. "I am obliged." "Pleasure," said the neighbour. "Er--hope we shall--er, er----" "I hope so too," smiled Conrad. "Er--no doubt."