In the High street of the ancient and famous town and port of Bevisham, Rosamund met the military governor of a neighbouring fortress, General Sherwin, once colonel of her husband’s regiment in India; and by him, as it happened, she was assisted in finding the whereabout of the young Liberal candidate, without the degrading recourse of an application at the newspaper-office of his party. The General was leisurely walking to a place of appointment to fetch his daughter home from a visit to an old school-friend, a Miss Jenny Denham, no other than a ward, or a niece, or an adoption of Dr. Shrapnel’s: “A nice girl; a great favourite of mine,” the General said. Shrapnel he knew by reputation only as a wrong-headed politician; but he spoke of Miss Denham pleasantly two or three times, praising her accomplishments and her winning manners. His hearer suspected that it might be done to dissociate the idea of her from the ruffling agitator. “Is she pretty?” was a question that sprang from Rosamund’s intimate reflections. The answer was, “Yes.” “Very pretty?” “I think very pretty,” said the General. “Captivatingly?” “Clara thinks she is perfect; she is tall and slim, and dresses well. The girls were with a French Madam in Paris. But, if you are interested about her, you can come on with me, and we shall meet them somewhere near the head of the street. I don’t,” the General hesitated and hummed—“I don’t call at Shrapnel’s.” “I have never heard her name before to-day,” said Rosamund. “Exactly,” said the General, crowing at the aimlessness of a woman’s curiosity.