blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames, are you off for your walk?' and add
fervently, 'Rather you than me!' I was one of those who walked,
and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she saw
me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in
preparation for my going. The arrangement between us was that she
should lie down until my return, and to ensure its being carried
out I saw her in bed before I started, but with the bang of the
door she would be at the window to watch me go: there is one spot
on the road where a thousand times I have turned to wave my stick
to her, while she nodded and smiled and kissed her hand to me.
That kissing of the hand was the one English custom she had
learned.

In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according
to promise, but still I am suspicious. The way to her detection is
circuitous.

'I'll need to be rising now,' she says, with a yawn that may be
genuine.

'How long have you been in bed?'

'You saw me go.'

'And then I saw you at the window. Did you go straight back to
bed?'

'Surely I had that much sense.'

'The truth!'