"No, no!" he cried; "the age corresponds with hers, and Talboys is such
an uncommon name."

"It may be a misprint for Talbot."

"No, no, no; my wife is dead!"

He shook off Robert's restraining hand, and rising from the bed, walked
straight to the door.

"Where are you going?" exclaimed his friend.

"To Ventnor, to see her grave."

"Not to-night, George, not to-night. I will go with you myself by the
first train to-morrow."

Robert led him back to the bed, and gently forced him to lie down again.
He then gave him an opiate, which had been left for him by the medical
man whom they had called in at the coffee-house in Bridge street, when
George fainted.

So George Talboys fell into a heavy slumber, and dreamed that he went to
Ventnor, to find his wife alive and happy, but wrinkled, old, and gray,
and to find his son grown into a young man.

Early the next morning he was seated opposite to Robert Audley in the
first-class carriage of an express, whirling through the pretty open
country toward Portsmouth.