step."

"Or downstairs."

"Yes," I said, "it's equally painful and dislocating."

"But you're not the only one," she said, "who's forgotten things. I've
done quite a lot in that line myself. I've forgotten the measles and
sugar and Lord RHONDDA and the Irish trouble and your Aunt Matilda,
and where I left my _pince-nez_ and what's become of the letters I
received this morning, and whom I promised to meet where and when to
talk over what. You needn't think you're the only forgetter in the
world. I can meet you on that and any other ground."

"But," I said, "the thing you made me forget--"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"No, for you hadn't remembered it."

"Well, anyhow I shall put it on to you, and I want you to realise that
it's not like one of your trivialities--"

"This man," said Francesca, "refers to his Aunt Matilda and Lord
RHONDDA as trivialities."

"It is not," I continued inexorably, "like one of your trivialities.
It's a most important thing, and it begins with a 'B.'"