“I don’t blame him,” said my uncle. “Mostly it’s imagination. That and leisure, George. When I was a young man I was kept pretty busy. So were you. Even then—!”
What puzzled me more particularly was the queer trick of my memory that had never recalled anything vital of Beatrice whatever when I met Garvell again that had, indeed, recalled nothing except a boyish antagonism and our fight. Now when my senses were full of her, it seemed incredible that I could ever have forgotten....
III
“Oh, Crikey!” said my aunt, reading a letter behind her coffee-machine. “HERE’S a young woman, George!”
We were breakfasting together in the big window bay at Lady Grove that looks upon the iris beds; my uncle was in London.
I sounded an interrogative note and decapitated an egg.
“Who’s Beatrice Normandy
