“Right you are, old woman,” he chuckled, “no more he could.  Blessed if he could!  And there’s no mistake about that.  And when you and me go North in the spring, why, it strikes me that we shall have to leave missie behind.  Yes, that we shall:  though I’d take her, glad enough, without the money.”

If at first his association with Margot reminded Rainham of another little girl whom he had loved, and whose place she could never even approximately fill, the memory was not a bitter one, and he was soon able to listen to her childish questioning without more than a gentle pang.  In time, he even found a dreary transient pleasure in closing his eyes on the dank dun reality of Blackpool, while the child discoursed to her doll in the nook of the bow-window, and his fancy wandered in another sunnier, larger room, with open windows, and the hum of a softer language rising in frequent snatches from the steep street outside; with a faint perfume of wood fires in the balmy, shimmering air, a merry clatter and jingle of hoofs, and bells, and harness; and another daintier child voice ringing quaint, colloquial Italian in his ears.  The awakening was certainly cruel, sometimes with almost the shock of a sudden savage blow, but the dream lasted and recurred:  he had always been a dreamer, and every day found him more forgetful of the present, more familiar with the past.

Upon his return, rather late, to the dock, he recognised, with a thrill of pleasure tinged with something of self-reproach, among the little pile of business letters which Mrs. Bullen brought to him with his tea-tray, the delicate angular handwriting of Lady Garnett, and he made haste to possess himself of the secret of the narrow envelope, of a by-gone fashion, secured with a careful seal.

“MY DEAR” (so she wrote):  “This is very absurd; yes, at the risk of offending you, I must tell you that it is not clever of you to take things so very much au serieux.  I know more than you think, Philip.  Mrs. Sylvester, who means well, doubtless—­but, mon Dieu, what a woman!—­Mrs. Sylvester has been here; she has spoken to me, and I am afraid I have scandalized her.  ’You don’t suppose he has married her,’ I said, I confess not altogether disingenuously, and how mystified she looked!  You will say that Mrs. Sylvester ought to mind her own affairs, and you will even find me a trifle impertinent, perhaps.  But I claim my privilege.  Am I not your godmother?  Still, I am rather intrigued, I own.  I don’t want to ask what you have done, or why; whatever it is, I approve of it.  What I find fault with is what you are doing, the part you are playing.  You must not give me the chagrin of seeing Mrs. Sylvester and the admirable Charles triumphant at your expense, Philip.  You must show yourself:  you must come and see me; you must come to dinner forthwith, or I shall have to make you a visit at your dock.  I must talk to you, mon cher!  I am troubled about you, and so is Mary.  Come to us, and Mary shall play to you and exorcise your demons.  Besides, I am bored—­horribly bored.  Yes, even Mary bores me sometimes, and I her, doubtless; and we want you.  We will own that we are selfish, after all, but you must come!”