"Yes; I suppose I did have a worse night than the rest of you. At least, I hope so, for your sakes." His manner might have seemed to warrant immediate speculation or inquiry about the cause of his sleeplessness, but Vereker walked on beside him in silence. The way was along a short, frustrated street that led to the field-pathway that was grass-grown, more or less, all but the heaps of flints that were one day to make a new top-dressing, but had been forgotten by the local board, and the premature curb-stones whose anticipations about traffic had never been fulfilled. The little detached houses on either side were unselfish little houses, that only wanted to be useful and afford shelter to the wanderer, or provide a refuge for old age. All made use, on placards, of the cautious expression "Apartments"; while some flung all reserve to the winds and said also they were "To let" outright. The least satisfactory one of the lot was almost invisible owing to its egotism, but distinguishable from afar because the cross-board on a standard that had been placed in the garden-front had fallen forward over the palings like Punch's gallows. It didn't much matter, because the placard attached was dissolving off in the rains, and hanging down so low that a goat was eating it with relish, standing against the parapet of the garden-fence. They reached the point at which Albion Villas had been thwarted by a hedge, rich in unripe sloes and green abortive blackberries, in their attempt to get across a stubble-field to the new town, and passed in instalments through its turnstile, or kissing-gate. Neither spoke, except that Fenwick said, "Look at the goat," until, after they had turned on to the chalk pathway, nearly dry in the warm sun and wind, he added a question: "Did you ever taste a sloe?" "Yes, once." "That is what every one says if you ask him if he ever tasted a sloe. Nobody ever does it again." "But they make sloe-gin of them?" "That, my dear Vereker, is what everybody always says next. Sally told me they did, and she's right. They console themselves for the taste of the sloe by an imaginary _liqueur_ like _maraschino_. But that's because they never tasted sloe-gin." Vereker thinks he may conclude that Fenwick is talking for talk's sake, and humours him. He can get to the memory-subject later. "A patient of mine," he says, "who's been living at Spezzia, was telling me about a fruit that was very good there, _diosperi_ he called them. They must be very unlike sloes by his description." "And naturally sloes made you think of them. I wonder what they are--_diosperi_--_diosperi_----" He repeated the word as though trying to recall it. Dr. Conrad helped the identification. "He said they are what the Japs call jelly-plums--great big fruit, very juicy." "I know. They're persimmons, or a sort of persimmons. We used to get lots of them in California, and even up at the Klondyke...."