dreamed-he did not know since when. This was like one of the dreams he used to have when he was a boy; a delightful dream. The sense of comfort which filled the room, the charmingly laid breakfast table, glorious with pretty china and shining plate; the charming woman who, with the most natural air, was treating him as one who not only had an assured footing, but who was both near and dear. Whether in this matter it was he who dreamed or she, he could not make sure. He wondered if he had been ill. He had such a strange feeling that he very easily might have been; he might have been ill for quite a long time; all sorts of things might have happened, and he might have forgotten all about them. It was the more possible since he could remember nothing; all he could remember was that he had awakened and found the man at his bedside with a tray on which was a tumbler. Before that, beyond that, his mind was a hazy blank.
But there seemed nothing hazy about his hostess, if she was his hostess; he supposed she was. If she was not his hostess, then who was she? She was ministering to his creature comforts in a manner which made the dream seem still more delightful, and such a very real one, too.
Through the haze which served him as a mind there seemed to gleam something which troubled him. The breakfast was excellent, the coffee, the food, everything. Was that not, in part, because at some remote period he had gone without breakfast, without-anything? He was frantically hungry. There was a fragrance about the hot rolls which recalled something. Was there not a time when he had wanted a hot roll very badly, or something like it? The effort of recollection caused him to stop eating, a fact on which the lady commented.
"Of what are you thinking? You looked as if your thoughts were miles away. Won't you have a little more bacon?"
He had a little more. There was an exquisite flavour about that bacon which made it seem fit food for a god. He ate and ate, while she sat by, putting more food upon his plate as soon as it was empty or replacing one plate with another. At last he ceased. How much he had eaten he had no notion; he could eat no more.
"Now," she said, "you must have a cigar and a liqueur."
It did not occur to him to ask if it was usual to follow such a breakfast as he had had with a liqueur; he was too full of physical content to care. He watched her as she brought a box of cigars to the table, choose one, cut it, put it between his lips, and, striking a match, held it up to him. The first puff at that cigar was ecstasy, so great as to be almost painful. What was the flood of recollections which it brought back? How long ago was it since he had tasted such a cigar as that-a cigar at all? What dreadful things had happened to him since? She had poured something out of a bottle into a glass. She had spoken of a liqueur; but it was not a liqueur glass which she held out to him and from which he sipped.
It was curious how willing he seemed to be to have everything done for him; to eat and drink what was given to him; to have no taste of his own; to behave almost as if he were a puppet, moving when she pulled the string. And it seemed to amuse her to observe that it was so. One felt that she was curious to learn how far in this direction she might go, to what extent she could pull the strings and he would move. She put almost the same question to him as the man had put to him upstairs:
"Now, how are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling-well, I can't tell you how I'm feeling. I'm feeling just right. But do you know-I hope you'll forgive my saying so-but do you know, it's a fact that I can't make things out at all."
"What sort of things?"
"Why-everything; all sorts of things."
"Explain just what you mean."
"I'll try; but somehow, you know, it doesn't seem easy." He took the cigar from between his lips and had another sip from the glass which was not a liqueur glass. Something in his manner seemed to be tickling her more and more; each moment the smile on her face seemed to be growing more pronounced; it was, apparently, only with an effort that she could keep herself from bursting into a roar of laughter. He was looking her straight in the face with something in his eyes which seemed to cause her profound amusement. "Have I been ill, or-or queer, or something? I don't quite know how it is, but I feel so-rummy, if you'll excuse the word, that I feel as if I had had something."
It was some seconds before she answered. She sat with her elbows on the table looking at him with twinkling eyes.
"Well, you have had something; indeed, I should say that you had something now."
"That's how I feel. You know" – he put his hands up to his forehead-"it seems as if there was something wrong with the works. I can't think nor understand. As for remembering-I can't remember anything at all."
"I should imagine that that might be awkward."
"It is; you've no idea. For instance-you laugh-but I can't make out where I am, or how I got here, or-and that's the worst of it, it does seem so ridiculous-but I can't remember who you are."
"I'm your wife."
She said it with a face all laughter. That the statement took him aback was evident. He started and stared as if he could not make out if she were in jest or earnest.
"My-what?"
"Your wife."
"I suppose you're joking?"
"Not at all; I've seldom felt less like it. Being a wife is a very serious thing. Aren't you conscious of your weighty responsibilities as a husband?"
"I know you're joking." A strange something came on to his face which might have been a smile, but, if it was, it was a pathetic one. She smiled back at him. Into her smile there came, upon an instant, a something which was hardly genial.
"But I'm not joking. You are Sir Jocelyn Kingstone, and I am Lady Kingstone, your lawful wife."
"Now, I do know that you are pulling my leg, in spite of the something wrong up here." He touched his forehead with his finger. "I do know that my name is not Kingstone, and I'm just as sure that I'm not married-no such luck."
"Can't you regard yourself as married for, say, a few hours, perhaps even less? Can't you act as if you were?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing much. But, you see, I've done you a favour-I don't want to mention it, but I have-and couldn't you do me one in return?"
"I feel you've done me a favour-I've a sort of consciousness of it in my bones-but for the life of me I can't straighten things out."
He presented an odd picture as he sat there endeavouring to get his wits into working order; he seemed to be gradually collapsing under the strain. Instead of being touched by his obviously piteous plight, it seemed to add to her amusement.
"Don't let's go into details; don't try, it will only worry you. I have done you a service, and that's enough. Now I want you to do me one, and as you're a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, I don't think I shall need to ask you twice; you'll do it the first time of asking."
"What is it you want me to do? I'll do what I can, but there's precious little I can do; I'm so-well, you can see for yourself how it is with me."
"I've told you already what it is I want you to do. I want you to consent to regard yourself as my husband for-probably only a very few minutes."
"But I don't understand. I don't see what good you're going to get from my pretending to be your husband. A very poor sort of a husband I should make."
"You'll only be my husband pro forma-I think that's the proper term. You see, I'm in a position in which I've got to have
