"Stop, Francesca," I cried. "Don't talk; don't budge; don't blink.
Give me time. I've all but--"
"What _are_ you up to?" she said.
"There," I said, "you've done it. I had it on the tip of my tongue,
and now it has gone back for ever into the limbo of forgotten things,
and all because you couldn't keep silent for the least little fraction
of a second."
"My poor dear," she said, "I _am_ sorry. But why didn't you tell me
you were trying to remember something?"
"That," I said, "would have been just as fatal to it. These things are
only remembered in an atmosphere of perfect silence. The mental effort
must have room to develop."
"Don't tell me," she said tragically, "that I have checked the
development of a mental effort. That would be too awful."
"Well," I said, "that's exactly what you _have_ done, that and nothing
less. I feel just as if I'd tried to go upstairs where there wasn't a
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.'"
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, I'm sure it begins with a 'B'--or perhaps a 'W.' Yes, I'm sure
it's a 'W' now."
"I'm going," said Francesca with enthusiasm, "to coax that word or
thing, or whatever it is, back to the tip of your tongue and beyond
it. So let's have all you know about it. Firstly, then, it begins with
a 'W.'"
"Yes, it begins with a 'W,' and I feel it's got something to do with
Lord RHONDDA."
"That doesn't help much. So far as I can see, everything now is more
or less nearly connected with Lord RHONDDA."
"But my forgotten thing isn't bread or meat. It's something remoter."
"Is it Mr. KENNEDY-JONES?" said Francesca. "He's just resigned, you
know."
"No, it's not Mr. KENNEDY-JONES. How could it be? Mr. KENNEDY-JONES
doesn't begin with a 'W.'"
"If I were you, I shouldn't insist too much on that 'W.' I should keep
it in the background, for it's about ten to one you'll find in the
end that it doesn't begin with a 'W.' At any rate we've made two short
advances; we know it isn't Mr. KENNEDY-JONES, because he doesn't begin
with a 'W,' and we are not very sure that it begins with a 'W.'"
"Keep quiet," I said, flushing with anticipation. "I'm getting it ...
your last remark has put me on the track.... Silence.... Ah ... it's
_DEVONSHIRE CREAM!_ There--I've got it at last. I feel an overwhelming
desire for Devonshire cream."
"The sort that begins with a 'W.'"
"Well, it's got a 'V' in it, anyhow."
"And it isn't Devonshire cream at all. It's really Cornish cream--at
least Mary Penruddock says it is."
"Cornish or Devonshire, that's what I must have, if Lord RHONDDA'S
rules allow it."
"All right, I'll get you a pot or two if I can. But are you sure you
won't forget it again?"
"If I do," I said, "I can always remember it by the W.'"