What a memory! At his age, what a memory!"
He dropped back into silence, and began picking at his fingers again.
Recollecting what I had heard from Betteredge about the effect of the
fever on his memory, I went on with the conversation, in the hope that I
might help him at starting.
"It's a long time since we met," I said. "We last saw each other at the
last birthday dinner my poor aunt was ever to give."
"That's it!" cried Mr. Candy. "The birthday dinner!" He started
impulsively to his feet, and looked at me. A deep flush suddenly
overspread his faded face, and he abruptly sat down again, as if
conscious of having betrayed a weakness which he would fain have
concealed. It was plain, pitiably plain, that he was aware of his own
defect of memory, and that he was bent on hiding it from the observation
of his friends.
Thus far he had appealed to my compassion only. But the words he had
just said--few as they were--roused my curiosity instantly to the
highest pitch. The birthday dinner had already become the one event in
the past, at which I looked back with strangely-mixed feelings of hope
and distrust. And here was the birthday dinner unmistakably proclaiming
itself as the subject on which Mr.
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