And so, Lady Tippins, quite undetermined whether today is the day before yesterday, or the day after to-morrow, or the week after next, fades away; and Mortimer Lightwood and Eugene fade away, and Twemlow fades away, and the stoney aunt goes away--she declines to fade, proving rock to the last--and even the unknowns are slowly strained off, and it is all over.
All over, that is to say, for the time being.

But, there is another time to come, and it comes in about a fortnight, and it comes to Mr and Mrs Lammle on the sands at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight.
Mr and Mrs Lammle have walked for some time on the Shanklin sands, and one may see by their footprints that they have not walked arm in arm, and that they have not walked in a straight track, and that they have walked in a moody humour; for, the lady has prodded little spirting holes in the damp sand before her with her parasol, and the gentleman has trailed his stick after him.

As if he were of the Mephistopheles family indeed, and had walked with a drooping tail.
'Do you mean to tell me, then, Sophronia--' Thus he begins after a long silence, when Sophronia flashes fiercely, and turns upon him.
'Don't put it upon ME, sir.

I ask you, do YOU mean to tell me ?' Mr Lammle falls silent again, and they walk as before.

Mrs Lammle opens her nostrils and bites her under-lip; Mr Lammle takes his gingerous whiskers in his left hand, and, bringing them together, frowns furtively at his beloved, out of a thick gingerous bush.
'Do I mean to say!' Mrs Lammle after a time repeats, with indignation.
'Putting it on me! The unmanly disingenuousness!' Mr Lammle stops, releases his whiskers, and looks at her.