"I can form no image in my mind, try how I may, of any woman for whose sake I would give up one hour of the precious privilege I now enjoy. I have no right to--to assess it, to make a definition of it. But I _have_ it now. I could not resume my place as the husband of a now unknown wife--you know what I mean--and not lose the privilege of being near _you_. It may be--it is conceivable, I mean; no more--that a revelation to me of myself, a light thrown on what I am, would bring me what would palliate the wrench of losing what I have of you. It _may_ be so--it _may_ be! All I know is--all I can say is--that I can now _imagine_ nothing, no treasure of love of wife or daughter, that would be a make-weight for what I should lose if I had to part from you." He paused a moment, as though he thought he was going beyond his rights of speech, then added more quietly: "No; I can imagine _no_ hypothetical wife. And as for my hypothetical daughter, I find I am always utilising Sally for her." Mrs. Nightingale murmured in an undertone the word "Sallykin," as she so often did when her daughter was mentioned, with that sort of caress in her voice. This time it was caught by a sort of gasp, and she remained silent. What Sally _was_ had crossed her mind--the strange relation in which she stood to Fenwick, born in _his_ wedlock, but no daughter of his. And there he was, as fond of the child as he could be. Fenwick may have half misunderstood something in her manner, for when he spoke again his words had a certain aspect of recoil from what he had said, at least of consideration of it in some new light. "When I speak to you as freely as this, remember the nature of the claim I have to do so--the only apology I can make for taking an exceptional licence." "How do you mean?" "I mean I do not count myself as a man--only a sort of inexplicable waif, a kind of cancelled man. A man without a past is like a child, or an idiot from birth, suddenly endowed with faculties." "What nonsense, Fenwick! You have brooded and speculated over your condition until you have become morbid. Do now, as Sally would say, chuck the metaphysics." "Perhaps I was getting too sententious over it. I'm sorry, and please I won't do so any more." "Don't then. And now you'll see what will happen. You will remember everything quite suddenly. It will all come back in a flash, and oh, how glad you will be! And think of the joy of your wife and children!" "Yes, and suppose all the while I am hating them for dragging me away from you----" "From me and Sally?"