“She is a wife to be proud of.  Since your disappearance, nearly two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes.  We learned that you were in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from Denver.  He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did not recognize him.”

“I think I remember the occasion,” I said.  “The fellow called me ‘Bellford,’ if I am not mistaken.  But don’t you think it about time, now, for you to introduce yourself?”

“I am Robert Volney—­Doctor Volney.  I have been your close friend for twenty years, and your physician for fifteen.  I came with Mrs. Bellford to trace you as soon as we got the telegram.  Try, Elwyn, old man—­try to remember!”

“What’s the use to try?” I asked, with a little frown.  “You say you are a physician.  Is aphasia curable?  When a man loses his memory does it return slowly, or suddenly?”

“Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went.”

“Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?” I asked.

“Old friend,” said he, “I’ll do everything in my power, and will have done everything that science can do to cure you.”

“Very well,” said I.  “Then you will consider that I am your patient.  Everything is in confidence now—­professional confidence.”

“Of course,” said Doctor Volney.

I got up from the couch.  Some one had set a vase of white roses on the centre table—­a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.  I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the couch again.

“It will be best, Bobby,” I said, “to have this cure happen suddenly.  I’m rather tired of it all, anyway.  You may go now and bring Marian in.  But, oh, Doc,” I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin—­“good old Doc—­it was glorious!”

XIII

A MUNICIPAL REPORT

The cities are full of pride,
Challenging each to each—­
This from her mountainside,
That from her burthened beach. 
R. KIPLING.

Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee!  There are just three big cities in the United States that are “story cities”—­New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.—­FRANK NORRIS.

East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.  Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State.  They are the Southerners of the West.  Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building.  But Californians go into detail.