"I am Tamsin Dearlove."
The remark made by Diogenes under somewhat like circumstances would
have been ungallant. In the process of searching for a better the
sick man fell asleep again.
What happened on his next return to consciousness shall be given in
his own words. He told me the story last autumn:--
"You see," he explained shyly, "I have not, my dear young friend,
that ingenuity of phrase which I so admire in you" (I protest I have
not the heart to suppress this tribute), "but seeing that, in such a
case, experience counts for something--and naturally, at your age,
you have yet to learn what it is to propose to a woman--I think I had
better tell you exactly what happened, the more so as it is a matter
which, if, as you assure me, necessary to your chronicle, I desire to
be related with accuracy. I am not, you understand, in the least
reflecting on your love of truth, but, after all, I _did_, as the
obnoxious phrase has it, 'propose' to Tamsin, whereas you--ahem--did
_not_."
I am convinced my friend meant to say "would not have had the
infernal impudence," but softened the expression, being habitually
careful of the feelings of others.
"When I awoke again," he went on, "she was seated in the window,
knitting. I lay for a long while watching her--indeed, this is my
first impression--before I made any sign.
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