I expressed a wish that he had selected the reds, so that he might have won; but he remarked in a change of mood that anything like success in any game would, by reason of its novelty, have given him serious alarm. I asked how the time was going. “Lent my watch to a relative,” he mentioned. “A rather distant relative; but I see a good deal of him, from the waist upwards.” And he went to the mantelpiece to inspect the clock. “Little man,” in a sharp voice, “who is this?” “That? Oh, that’s dear mother.” He looked at it closely, whistled a tune softly. “I shall have to catch an earlier train,” he announced suddenly. “I’m sorry. You make my apologies to every one, and say the muddle was entirely mine.” “But you can’t, Mr. Cartwright. There’s nothing before the six minutes to eight.” My governess came in, and he replaced the frame quickly. My governess has sometimes complained that the house is lacking in male society; she took advantage of this opportunity to talk with great vivacity, and, in tones very different from those she uses in addressing me, inquired with affectation concerning the theatres in town, and entertainments generally. Fearing she would try Mr. Cartwright’s patience, as she has often tried mine, I endeavoured to detach her; but the task proved one beyond my abilities, and she went on to submit, with deference, that what was required was an increase of merriment in life, a view that, coming from her, amazed me into silence. Mr. Cartwright answered that in his opinion life was full of rollicking fun, completely furnished with joy. “What a gift,” cried my governess, “to be able always to see the cheerful side! It means, of course, that you have been singularly free from anything like disaster. Tell me, now, what is the nearest to a sad experience that you ever had?” “I expect we ought to be getting downstairs,” he remarked. In the hall I introduced Mr. Cartwright, with pride, to my mother. “Charmed to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. My mother can be very pleasant, and if, at the moment, she gave signs of agitation, it was not to be wondered at; I myself felt nervous. “My boy tells me that you are going to be so very kind—” She appeared unable to go on with the sentence. “I was glad,” he said, “to find he had not forgotten me. It isn’t everybody who has a good memory.” “It isn’t everybody who cares to possess one,” she said, with some spirit. “I have heard of cases where men forget their real names.” “I have heard of cases,” he remarked, “where women have been in a great hurry to change theirs.”