"You may trust me." Rosalind feels no doubt on that point, the more so that the little passage about Sally's name has landed her at some haven of the doctor's confidence that neither knows the name of just yet. He is not the first man that has felt a welcome in some trifling word of a very special daughter's mother. But woe be to the mother who is premature and spoils all! Poor Prosy is too far gone to be a risky subject of experiment. But _he_ won't say anything--not he! "After all, you know," he continues, "it may all turn out a false alarm. Or false hope, should I say?" No answer. And he doesn't press for one. He is in a land of pitfalls. * * * * * "What have you and your medical adviser been talking about all the while, there in mid-ocean?" Fenwick forgets the late event with pleasure. Sally, with her hair threatening to come down in the wind, is enough to stampede a troop of nightmares. "Poor Prosy!" is all the answer that comes at present. Perhaps if that uncontrolled black coil will be tractable she will concede more anon. You can't get your hair back under your hat and walk quick and talk, all at the same time. "Poorer than usual, Sarah?" But really just at this corner it's as much as you can do, if you have skirts, to get along at all; to say nothing of the way such loose ends as you indulge in turn on you and flagellate your face in the wind. Oh, the vicious energy of that stray ribbon! Fancy having to use up one hand to hold that! But a lull came when the corner was fairly turned, in the lee of a home of many nets, where masses of foam-fleck had found a respite, and leisure to collapse, a bubble at a time. You could see the prism-scale each had to itself, each of the millions, if you looked close enough. Collectively, their appearance was slovenly. A chestnut-coloured man a year old, who looked as if he meant some day to be a boatswain, was seated on a pavement that cannot have soothed his unprotected flesh--flint pebbles can't, however round--and enjoying the mysterious impalpable nature of this foam. However, even for such hands as his--and Sally wanted to kiss them badly--they couldn't stop. She got her voice, though, in the lull. "Yes--a little. I've found out all about Prosy." "Found out about him?" "I've made him talk about it. It's all about his ma and a young lady he's in love with...." Fenwick's _ha!_ or _h'm!_ or both joined together, was probably only meant to hand the speaker on, but the tone made her suspicious. She asked him why he said that, imitating it; on which he answered, "Why shouldn't he?" "Because," said Sally, "if you fancy Prosy's in love with me, you're mistaken." "Very good! Cut along, Sarah! You've made him talk about the young lady he's in love with...?" "Well, he as good as talked about her, anyhow! _I_ understood quite plain. He wants to marry her awfully, but he's afraid to say so to her, because of his ma." "Doesn't Mrs. Vereker like her?"