A dreadful doubt fell upon Melville. As you know, he had never seen that tail with his own eyes. In these surroundings there came to him such an incredulity of the Sea Lady as he had not felt even when first Mrs. Bunting told him of her. All about him was an atmosphere of solid reality, such as one can breathe only in a first-class London club. Everywhere ponderous arm-chairs met the eye. There were massive tables in abundance and match-boxes of solid rock. The matches were of some specially large, heavy sort. On a ponderous elephant-legged green baize table near at hand were several copies of the _Times_, the current _Punch_, an inkpot of solid brass, and a paper weight of lead. _There are other dreams!_ It seemed impossible. The breathing of an eminent person in a chair in the far corner became very distinct in that interval. It was heavy and resolute like the sound of a stone-mason's saw. It insisted upon itself as the touchstone of reality. It seemed to say that at the first whisper of a thing so utterly improbable as a mermaid it would snort and choke. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," said Melville. "Well, tell me--anyhow." My cousin looked at an empty chair beside him. It was evidently stuffed with the very best horse-hair that money could procure, stuffed with infinite skill and an almost religious care. It preached in the open invitation of its expanded arms that man does not live by bread alone--inasmuch as afterwards he needs a nap. An utterly dreamless chair! Mermaids? He felt that he was after all quite possibly the victim of a foolish delusion, hypnotised by Mrs. Bunting's beliefs. Was there not some more plausible interpretation, some phrase that would lie out bridgeways from the plausible to the truth? "It's no good," he groaned at last. Chatteris had been watching him furtively. "Oh, I don't care a hang," he said, and shied his second cigarette into the massively decorated fireplace. "It's no affair of mine." Then quite abruptly he sprang to his feet and gesticulated with an ineffectual hand. "You needn't," he said, and seemed to intend to say many regrettable things. Meanwhile until his intention ripened he sawed the air with his ineffectual hand. I fancy he ended by failing to find a thing sufficiently regrettable to express the pungency of the moment. He flung about and went towards the door. "Don't!" he said to the back of the newspaper of the breathing member. "If you don't want to," he said to the respectful waiter at the door. The hall-porter heard that he didn't care--he was damned if he did! "He might be one of these here guests," said the hall-porter, greatly shocked. "That's what comes of lettin' 'em in so young." VI Melville overcame an impulse to follow him. "Confound the fellow!" said he. And then as the whole outburst came into focus, he said with still more emphasis, "Confound the fellow!"