"Well," I said, "that's exactly what you _have_ done, that and nothing less. I feel just as if I'd tried to go upstairs where there wasn't a step." "Or downstairs." "Yes," I said, "it's equally painful and dislocating." "But you're not the only one," she said, "who's forgotten things. I've done quite a lot in that line myself. I've forgotten the measles and sugar and Lord RHONDDA and the Irish trouble and your Aunt Matilda, and where I left my _pince-nez_ and what's become of the letters I received this morning, and whom I promised to meet where and when to talk over what. You needn't think you're the only forgetter in the world. I can meet you on that and any other ground." "But," I said, "the thing you made me forget--" "I didn't." "You did." "No, for you hadn't remembered it." "Well, anyhow I shall put it on to you, and I want you to realise that it's not like one of your trivialities--" "This man," said Francesca, "refers to his Aunt Matilda and Lord RHONDDA as trivialities." "It is not," I continued inexorably, "like one of your trivialities. It's a most important thing, and it begins with a 'B.'" "Are you sure of that?" "Yes, I'm sure it begins with a 'B'--or perhaps a 'W.' Yes, I'm sure it's a 'W' now." "I'm going," said Francesca with enthusiasm, "to coax that word or thing, or whatever it is, back to the tip of your tongue and beyond it. So let's have all you know about it. Firstly, then, it begins with a 'W.'" "Yes, it begins with a 'W,' and I feel it's got something to do with Lord RHONDDA." "That doesn't help much. So far as I can see, everything now is more or less nearly connected with Lord RHONDDA." "But my forgotten thing isn't bread or meat. It's something remoter." "Is it Mr. KENNEDY-JONES?" said Francesca. "He's just resigned, you know." "No, it's not Mr. KENNEDY-JONES. How could it be? Mr. KENNEDY-JONES doesn't begin with a 'W.'" "If I were you, I shouldn't insist too much on that 'W.' I should keep it in the background, for it's about ten to one you'll find in the end that it doesn't begin with a 'W.' At any rate we've made two short advances; we know it isn't Mr. KENNEDY-JONES, because he doesn't begin with a 'W,' and we are not very sure that it begins with a 'W.'" "Keep quiet," I said, flushing with anticipation. "I'm getting it ... your last remark has put me on the track.... Silence.... Ah ... it's _DEVONSHIRE CREAM!_ There--I've got it at last. I feel an overwhelming desire for Devonshire cream." "The sort that begins with a 'W.'" "Well, it's got a 'V' in it, anyhow." "And it isn't Devonshire cream at all. It's really Cornish cream--at least Mary Penruddock says it is." "Cornish or Devonshire, that's what I must have, if Lord RHONDDA'S rules allow it." "All right, I'll get you a pot or two if I can. But are you sure you won't forget it again?" "If I do," I said, "I can always remember it by the W.'" R.C.L. * * * * * THE CHANGE CURE.