But he must make an effort against this sort of thing. Here was he, who had just made up his mind--so he phrased it--to remain himself, and refuse to be Harrisson, no sooner was he left alone for a few minutes than he must needs be raking up the past. And that, too, because of a line of Horace!--sound in itself, but quite cut asunder from its origin, the book he read it in, or the voice he heard read it. What did that line matter? Leave it for Mr. Harrisson in that state of pre-existence. As well make a point of recalling the _provenance_ of any little thing that had happened in this his present life. Well, for instance, Mary and the fat boy in "Pickwick." Rosalind had read him that aloud, he knew, but he couldn't say when. Was he going to worry himself to recall that which could do him no harm to know? Surely not. And if so, why strive to bring back things better forgotten? It is useless to endeavour to make the state of Fenwick's mind, at this point of the imperfect revival of memory, appear other than incredible. A person who has had the painful experience of forgetting his own name in a dream would perhaps understand it best. Or, without going so far, can no help be got towards it from our frequent certainties about some phrase (for instance) that we think we cannot possibly forget? about some date that we believe no human power will ever obliterate? And in five minutes--gone--utterly gone! Truly, there is no evidence but a man's own word for what he does or does not, can or cannot, recollect. * * * * * "I say, Rosey, when was it you read to me about Mary and the fat boy in 'Pickwick'?" Fenwick, having suggested a doubt to himself about his power to recall what he supposed to have happened recently, had, of course, set about doing it directly. His question was asked of his wife as he came into her bedroom on his return. He mounted the stairs singing to himself, "Que nous mangerons Marott-e, Bec-a-bec et toi et moi," till he came in to where Rosalind was sitting reading, with her wonderful hair combed free--probably by Sally for a treat. Then he asked his question rather suddenly, and it made her start. "I was in the middle of my book, and you made me jump." He gave her a kiss for apology. "What's the question? When did I read to you about Mary and the fat boy? I couldn't say. I feel as if I had, though." "Was it out in the garden at K. Villa? It wasn't here." He usually called Krakatoa "K." for working purposes. "No, it certainty wasn't here. It must have been at home, only I can't recollect when. Ask Sally." "The kitten wasn't there." "She would know, though. She always knows. She's not asleep yet ... Sallykin!" The young person is on the other side of a mere wooden partition, congenial to the architecture of Lobjoit's, and her reply conveys the idea of a speaker in bed who hasn't moved to answer. "What? Be quick. I'm going to sleep."