fretfully at first, but soon with returning gaiety.

‘Tut, it’s nothing, Daisy! nothing!’ he replied. ‘I told you at the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself, sometimes. I have been a nightmare to myself, just now — must have had one, I think.

At odd dull times, nursery tales come up into the memory, unrecognized for what they are. I believe I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who “didn’t care”, and became food for lions — a grander kind of going to the dogs, I suppose. What old women call the horrors, have been creeping over me from head to foot. I have been afraid of myself.’

‘You are afraid of nothing else, I think,’ said I.

‘Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of too,’