"I can’t, I can’t. We’ve q-quarrelled," she said, "and he’s furious, and I’m f-furious with him." "Why?" asked Bob, still inspecting the baby for signs of his male parentage, "why? Oh, I say, sideways he reminds me of Williams and Rivaulx, and upside down he’s a little like Carew and Goby. But why have you quarrelled, Pen?" Pen explained with tears how it had happened. "You see, I said he wasn’t to tell," she said. "And he went to your grandmother and told!" "So did all the rest," said Bob, "and that was where granny got very confused. I listened. I know it was a sneak thing to do, but I was thinking of your interests, and she said to the last of ’em: ’I know you’ve come to say you’ve married dear Penelope.’ It was very pathetic, Pen. I never thought granny could be pathetic before. She usually makes me pathetic instead, or she used to. But was he one of ’em?" "He was," sniffed Pen, "and he broke his solemn oath. The others were noble. I sent them telegrams to say they were noble." "That’s why they all went to Spilsborough, where you sent the telegrams from," said Bob, "and that’s why Plant and Rivaulx fought with swords under the cathedral, till the bishop and the dean stopped them. I tell you the dean _was_ mad." "Oh, dear, dear!" said Penelope. "I wish they wouldn’t. Did they hurt each other?" "Not much, I think," replied Bob. "I didn’t see any blood. But when I told ’em you’d married Timothy Bunting, Rivaulx lay on the grass and tried to bite it and howled dreadfully." "Poor marquis!" said Pen. "But why did you tell them so dreadful a story?" Bob shook his head. "I’m sorry, Pen, but I believed it. Weekes said she _knew_, and granny had fits. There’s something about fits that makes you believe almost anything. But you haven’t told me who it is. I say, with the light sideways on that baby, he reminds me of Bramber. But who is it?" "We’ve p-parted," said Penelope. "He came and said he’d told, and I was very f-furious, and we had a r-row. And he was so cross and mad, because without me he couldn’t prove it. For we were married in other names, and I wrote my name in another handwriting, and I said I would deny it. And he flew into a passion and into a motor-car and went away. And I’ve only my p-pride and b-baby left. And I’m so sorry for every one. And how did you find me?" Bob told her how he had done it, and told her of Bradstock’s advertisement, and told her about the bishop, and more about Mr. Bunting of All Saints, Oxford, who was the strongest man he had ever seen. Carteret Williams was nothing in his hands. "And now I’ve told you everything, won’t you tell me who it is?" "No," said poor Penelope; "it would humiliate me to tell now, and I won’t." "But they must know here," said Bob.