“I told you that I remembered,” said Mr. Russell.  “I don’t know how.  I remember sitting on a high cliff and seeing three black birds swim in a row, and dive in a row, and in a row come up again after I had counted hundreds.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Gustus, trying not to appear cross before the visitor, “you’re thinking of something else.  You can see such a sight as that at the Zoo any day.”

“You all seem to know quite a lot about the place,” said the admirer, “yet not much of a very practical nature, if I may say so.”

“Everything practical is unromantic,” said Mrs. Gustus.  “There is nothing true or beautiful in the world but poetry.  If we seek in real simplicity of mind, we shall find what we seek, for simplicity is poetry, and poetry is truth.”

“Also, of course, England has only one west coast,” added Kew, “and if we don’t find the place we shall have found a good many other things by the time we have finished.”

“It may be in Ireland,” suggested the admirer.

“No, because she answers our letters so quickly.”

“She?”

“My young cousin, the object of our search.”

“Did she run away?” asked the admirer, in a voice strangled with excitement.

To admit that a young relation of Anonyma’s should run away from her would be undignified.

“You mustn’t take us too seriously,” said Mrs. Gustus lightly.  “It isn’t a case of an elopement, or anything like that.  Just an excuse for a tour, and a rest from wearisome war work.  A wild-goose chase, nothing but fun in it.”

“Wild goose is a good description of Jay,” said Cousin Gustus.  It was rather.

Next morning the admirer, twittering with excitement, came in upon the Family while it was having its breakfast.

“Oh, I had such an idea in the night,” she said.  “I couldn’t sleep, of course, after such an exciting day.  I believe I have been fated to help you in your quest.  I know of a house near here, and the more I think of it the more sure I feel that it is the place you want.”

“Who lives there?”

“A young man with his mother.  I forget the name.”

“Place we want’s west,” objected Mr. Russell.

“You never can tell,” said Anonyma.  “This place may stand on a salient, facing west.  Our search must be thorough.”

“It’s such a lovely walk,” said the admirer.  “I should be so much honoured if you would let me show you the way.  Oh, I say, do you think me very presumptuous?”

Her self-consciousness took the form of a constant repentance.  In the night she would go over her day and probe it for tender points.  “Oh, that was a dreadful thing to say,” was a refrain that would keep her awake for hours, wriggling and giggling in her bed over the dreadfulness of it.  She had too little egoism.  The lack gave her face a look of littleness.  A lack of altruism has the same outward effect.  A complete face should be full of something, of gentleness, of vigour, of humour, of wickedness.  The admirer’s face was only half full of anything.  All the same there was charm about her, the fact that she was an admirer was charming.  Mrs. Gustus reassured her.