the trunk had so long ago ceased to travel. I unstrapped it, not
without dust; it exhaled the faint scent of its long closure; it
contained a tweed suit of Late Victorian pattern, some bills, some
letters, a collar-stud, and--something which, after I had wondered for
a moment or two what on earth it was, caused me suddenly to murmur,
`Down below, the sea rustled to and fro over the shingle.'

Strange that these words had, year after long year, been existing in
some obscure cell at the back of my brain!--forgotten but all the
while existing, like the trunk in that cupboard. What released them,
what threw open the cell door, was nothing but the fragment of a fan;
just the butt-end of an inexpensive fan. The sticks are of white bone,
clipped together with a semicircular ring that is not silver. They are
neatly oval at the base, but variously jagged at the other end. The
longest of them measures perhaps two inches. Ring and all, they have
no market value; for a farthing is the least coin in our currency. And
yet, though I had so long forgotten them, for me they are not
worthless. They touch a chord... Lest this confession raise false
hopes in the reader, I add that I did not know their owner.

I did once see her, and in Normandy, and by moonlight, and her name
was Ange'lique. She was graceful, she was even beautiful. I was but
nineteen years old. Yet even so I cannot say that she impressed me
favourably. I was seated at a table of a cafe' on the terrace of a
casino. I sat facing the sea, with my back to the casino. I sat
listening to the quiet sea, which I had crossed that morning. The hour
was late, there were few people about. I heard the swing-door behind
me flap open, and was aware of a sharp snapping and crackling sound as
a lady in white passed quickly by me. I stared at her erect thin back
and her agitated elbows. A short fat man passed in pursuit of her--an