private life of too speculative a turn--always sneaking into the City to put his money into some rotten thing. He married a girl who brought him something and they had half a dozen children. He scarcely knew what had become of the rest of them, except that one was in the Church and had found preferment--wasn't he Dean of Rockingham? Clement, the fellow who was at Stayes, had some military talent; he had served in the East, he had married a pretty girl. He had been at Eton with his son, and he used to come to Stayes in his holidays. Lately, coming back to England, he had turned up with his wife again; that was before he--the old man--had been put to grass. He was a taking dog, but he had a monstrous foible. 'A monstrous foible?' said Lyon. 'He's a thumping liar.' Lyon's brush stopped short, while he repeated, for somehow the formula startled him, 'A thumping liar?' 'You are very lucky not to have found it out.' 'Well, I confess I have noticed a romantic tinge----' 'Oh, it isn't always romantic. He'll lie about the time of day, about the name of his hatter. It appears there are people like that.' 'Well, they are precious scoundrels,' Lyon declared, his voice trembling a little with the thought of what Everina Brant had done with herself. 'Oh, not always,' said the old man. 'This fellow isn't in the least a scoundrel. There is no harm in him and no bad intention; he doesn't steal nor cheat nor gamble nor drink; he's very kind--he sticks to his wife, is fond of his children. He simply can't give you a straight answer.' 'Then everything he told me last night, I suppose, was mendacious: he delivered himself of a series of the stiffest statements. They stuck, when I tried to swallow them, but I never thought of so simple an explanation.' 'No doubt he was in the vein,' Sir David went on. 'It's a natural peculiarity--as you might limp or stutter or be left-handed. I believe it comes and goes, like intermittent fever. My son tells me that his friends usually understand it and don't haul him up--for the sake of his wife.' 'Oh, his wife--his wife!' Lyon murmured, painting fast. 'I daresay she's used to it.' 'Never in the world, Sir David. How can she be used to it?' 'Why, my dear sir, when a woman's fond!--And don't they mostly handle the long bow themselves? They are connoisseurs--they have a sympathy for a fellow-performer.' Lyon was silent a moment; he had no ground for denying that Mrs. Capadose was attached to her husband. But after a little he rejoined: 'Oh, not this one! I knew her years ago--before her marriage; knew her well and admired her. She was as clear as a bell.' 'I like her very much,' Sir David said, 'but I have seen her back him up.' Lyon considered Sir David for a moment, not in the light of a model. 'Are you very sure?' The old man hesitated; then he answered, smiling, 'You're in love with her.' 'Very likely. God knows I used to be!' 'She must help him out--she can't expose him.'