* * * * * There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. George attended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation. Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and in those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved. There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had at length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness. Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was infusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, George could not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becoming funny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way back to the hotel. In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied. He recognized the occupant. 'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself beside her. 'Really?' 'The whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know their lines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased about it.' 'Really?' George felt damped. 'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said, lamely. 'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident this afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people in the play.' 'You heard about it?' 'I have been hearing about nothing else.' 'Curious it happening so soon after--' 'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious.' There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell with women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as if-- He changed the subject. 'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?' 'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly.' George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again. 'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said. She turned on him. 'Mr Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?' Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare half-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotions were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel now. 'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand.' 'Really?' 'What have I done?' 'You have forgotten how to swim.' A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of George's forehead. 'Forgotten!' 'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, and today I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I saw you at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you are taking lessons. Can you explain it?'