My mind strays gently away over all my past life--over the last important year.

I think of my wedding, of my little live wreath of sweet Nancies, of our long, dusty journey, of Dresden.
With an honest, stinging heart-pang, I think of my ill-concealed and selfish weariness in our twilight walks and scented drives, of the look of hurt kindness on his face, at his inability to please me.

I think of our return, of the day when he told me of the necessity for his voyage to Antigua, and of my own egotistic unwillingness to accompany him.

I think of our parting, when I shed such plenteous tears--tears that seem to me now to have been so much more tears of remorse, of sorrow that I was not sorrier, than of real grief.

In every scene I seem to myself to have borne a most shabby part.
My meditations are broken in upon by a quick step approaching me, by a voice in my ear--Algy's.
"You are _here_, are you?
I have been looking for you everywhere! Why, the window is _open_! For Heaven's sake let me get you a cloak! you know how delicate your chest is.