and a mouth. Gradually, however, the conviction came upon me that I

could, by a certain concentration of thought, think the veil away,

and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face–as to which the two

questions, “is she pretty?” and “is she plain?”, still hung suspended,

in my mind, in beautiful equipoise.

Success was partial–and fitful–still there was a result: ever and

anon, the veil seemed to vanish, in a sudden flash of light: but,

before I could fully realise the face, all was dark again. In each such

glimpse, the face seemed to grow more childish and more innocent:

and, when I had at last thought the veil entirely away, it was,

unmistakeably, the sweet face of little Sylvie!

“So, either I’ve been dreaming about Sylvie,” I said to myself,

“and this is the reality. Or else I’ve really been with Sylvie,

and this is a dream! Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?”

To occupy the time, I got out the letter, which had caused me to take

this sudden railway-journey from my London home down to a strange

fishing-town on the North coast, and read it over again:-


“I’m sure it will be as great a pleasure to me, as it can possibly

be to you, to meet once more after so many years: and of course I

shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as

I have: only, you know, one mustn’t violate professional etiquette!

And you are already in the hands of a first-rate London doctor,

with whom it would be utter affectation for me to pretend to compete. (I make no doubt he

is right in saying the heart is affected:

all your symptoms point that way.) One thing, at any rate, I have

already done in my doctorial capacity–secured you a bedroom on the

ground-floor, so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all.

“I shalt expect you by last train on Friday, in accordance with your

letter: and, till then, I shalt say, in the words of the old song,

‘Oh for Friday nicht! Friday’s lang a-coming!’

“Yours always,


“P.S. Do you believe in Fate?”

This Postscript puzzled me sorely. “He is far too sensible a man,”

I thought, “to have become a Fatalist. And yet what else can he mean by

it?” And, as I folded up the letter and put it away, I inadvertently

repeated the words aloud. “Do you believe in Fate?”

The fair ‘Incognita’ turned her head quickly at the sudden question.

“No, I don’t!” she said with a smile. “Do you?”

“I–I didn’t mean to ask the question!” I stammered, a little taken

aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion.

The lady’s smile became a laugh–not a mocking laugh, but the laugh

of a happy child who is perfectly at her ease. “Didn’t you?” she said.

“Then it was a case of what you Doctors call ‘unconscious cerebration’?”

“I am no Doctor,” I replied. “Do I look so like one? Or what makes you

think it?”

She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its

title, “Diseases of the Heart,” was plainly visible.

“One needn’t be a Doctor,” I said, “to take an interest in medical

books. There’s another class of readers, who are yet more deeply


“You mean the Patients?” she interrupted, while a look of tender pity

gave new sweetness to her face. “But,” with an evident wish to avoid a

possibly painful topic, “one needn’t be either, to take an interest in

books of Science. Which contain the greatest amount of Science,

do you think, the books, or the minds?”

“Rather a profound question for a lady!” I said to myself, holding,

with the conceit so natural to Man, that Woman’s intellect is

essentially shallow. And I considered a minute before replying.

“If you mean living minds, I don’t think it’s possible to decide.

There is so much written Science that no living person has ever read:

and there is so much thought-out Science that hasn’t yet been written.

But, if you mean the whole human race, then I think the minds have it:

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Categories: Carroll, Lewis