When I haven't, I miss it.

Remember the story of Sir Walter Scott's boy with the butter?
Something like that, you know.

But in its bare state it's not a pretty sight for the mother." "It ought to have a name," said I."The poilu calls his bayonet Rosalie." He looked at it darkly for a moment, before refitting the wash-leather.
"I might call it The Reminder," said he.

"Good-bye." And he turned quickly and strode out of the door.
The Reminder of what?
He puzzled me.

Why, in spite of all my open-heartedness, did he still contrive to leave me with a sense of the enigmatic?
Although he showed himself openly about the town, he held himself aloof from social intercourse with the inhabitants.