This was a stupefying surprise.  It took my wits clear away, for an instant.  However, we shook hands cordially all around, and I sat down.  But truly this was the tightest place I ever was in.  I seemed to vaguely remember the girl’s face, now, but I had no idea where I had seen it before, or what named belonged with it.  I immediately tried to get up a diversion about Swiss scenery, to keep her from launching into topics that might betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use, she went right along upon matters which interested her more: 

“Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed the forward boats away—­do you remember it?”

“Oh, don’t I!” said I—­but I didn’t.  I wished the sea had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain away—­then I could have located this questioner.

“And don’t you remember how frightened poor Mary was, and how she cried?”

“Indeed I do!” said I.  “Dear me, how it all comes back!”

I fervently wished it would come back—­but my memory was a blank.  The wise way would have been to frankly own up; but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on, deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue but never getting one.  The Unrecognizable continued, with vivacity: 

“Do you know, George married Mary, after all?”

“Why, no!  Did he?”

“Indeed he did.  He said he did not believe she was half as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he was right.  Didn’t you?”

“Of course he was.  It was a perfectly plain case. 
I always said so.”

“Why, no you didn’t!—­at least that summer.”

“Oh, no, not that summer.  No, you are perfectly right about that.  It was the following winter that I said it.”

“Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least to blame —­it was all her father’s fault—­at least his and old Darley’s.”

It was necessary to say something—­so I said: 

“I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing.”

“So he was, but then they always had a great affection for him, although he had so many eccentricities.  You remember that when the weather was the least cold, he would try to come into the house.”

I was rather afraid to proceed.  Evidently Darley was not a man—­he must be some other kind of animal—­possibly a dog, maybe an elephant.  However, tails are common to all animals, so I ventured to say: 

“And what a tail he had!”

“One!  He had a thousand!”

This was bewildering.  I did not quite know what to say, so I only said: 

“Yes, he was rather well fixed in the matter of tails.”

“For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,” said she.

It was getting pretty sultry for me.  I said to myself, “Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for me to speak?  If she does, the conversation is blocked.  A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more or less preparation.  As to diving rashly into such a vast subject—­”