‘I assure you there’s nothing wrong with that,’ said his wife. He passed his hand over his lined, clean-shaven face and apologized courteously. During all the twenty years of his married life he had never quarrelled with Martha. He regarded her as a cosmic condition of his existence, like breakfast, rain and fog, and, again like these phenomena, remote from his vital interests. He had no appetite, he said; was too tired to eat; dog-weary; she must forgive him. ‘Of course I do,’ she replied politely. ‘But, all the same, it isn’t funny looking after a dead man.’ He was a dry, pragmatic fellow, accustomed to interpret the exact signification of words. ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Nothing more than what I said, Cosmo.’ Sitting on the steps of the caravan, he repeated, as these incidents passed through his mind: ‘Yes, what the devil did she mean by that?’ He continued his review. The dull meal over, he lit his after-dinner cigar, his one concession to the hedonistic, and smoked it as usual, in solitude. Mrs. Paradyne allowed cigarettes, on necessary occasions, in her drawing-room, but never cigars. As it tasted bitter, he threw it away half-smoked and joined his wife, whom he found casting up wedding accounts at her escritoire. After a short while, he bade her good night, kissed a half-turned cheek and, according to unvarying custom when at home, went into his study to work. He was in the middle of a book, _The Relations of Equity to Common Law_, which, luminously written, would supply a long-felt want. He sat down and opened out his manuscript. There his memory failed. What had happened after that? Instinctively he searched his right-hand pocket for his pipe. He found it; but he found something else, too, which caused him mighty astonishment. It was a very short, though somewhat elaborate, silver flageolet. The dim light of dawn had now overspread the earth so that objects near and far were visible; but, for the next few moments, all that he saw was the bright and alluring instrument in his hands. Now, Cosmo Paradyne was a musician in a dry and scientific way; furthermore, an authority on the history and use of wind instruments. He had founded the Ealing Symphonic Society and once a month or so played oboe or clarinet at their concerts. He had a fair collection in his study. But this silver flageolet had never been in his possession. He had never seen one like it. He stared at it, put it to his lips, and, fingering the stops and keys, began to play, without premeditated act of volition, an extraordinary air. But after a few phrases he leaped to his feet in a shiver of fright, dropping the flageolet on the grass. How had this Puckish melody come into his head? Then, returning memory flashed a clear picture.