Just now, therefore, Francis Lingen flowed murmuring on his way, like a purling brook, rippling, fluctuant, carrying insignificant straws, insects of the hour, on his course, never jamming, or heaving up, monotonous but soothing. And as for implications--! Good Heavens, he was stuffed with them like a Michaelmas goose.... "I do so wish that you could talk with her. You could do so much to straighten things out for the poor child. You are so wise. There's a kind of balm in your touch upon life, something that's aromatic and healing at once. _Sainfoin_, the healing herb--that should be your emblem. I have always thought so. By the by, have you an emblem? I wish you'd let me find you one. Old Gerrard will give it me--and I will give it to you. Some patient, nimble-fingered good soul has coloured my copy. You shall have it faithfully rendered; and it shall be framed by Le Notre of Vigo Street--do you know his work? You must--and stand on your writing-table.... I see you are shaping a protest. Frugality? Another of your shining qualities. Not of mine? No, no. I admire it in you. It is not a manly virtue. A 'frugal swain' means a harassed wife. Now, confess. Would you have me board? I believe I would do it if you asked me...." Not very exciting, all this; but if you want implications--! It was while this was going on that Lancelot, hovering and full of purpose, annexed Urquhart. The Judge, suddenly aware of him between them, put a hand upon his head as you might fondle the top of a pedestal--which Lancelot, intent upon his prey, endured. Then his moment came, a decent subsidence of anecdotes, and his upturned eyes caught Urquhart's. "I say, will you come and see my orange-tree? It's just over there, in the conservatory. It's rather interesting--to me, you know." Urquhart considered the proposition. "Yes," he said, "I'll do that." And they went off, Lancelot on tiptoe. Lucy's attention strayed. The orange-tree was exhibited, made the most of; its history was related. There was nothing more to say about it. Lancelot, his purpose growing, gave a nervous laugh. "No Turk could hide in that, I expect," he said, and trembled. Urquhart gazed at the weedy little growth. "No," he said, "he couldn't--yet. But a ladybird could." He picked out a dormant specimen. But Lancelot was now committed to action beyond recall. The words burned his lips. "I say," he said, twiddling a leaf of his orange-tree, "I expect you've been a pirate?" The Judge had wandered in, and was surveying the pair, his hands deep in his trousers-pockets. Urquhart nodded. "You've bit it," he said. Lancelot had been certain of it. Good Lord! The questions crowded upon him. "What kind of a ship was yours?" "She was a brigantine. Fifteen hundred tons." "Oh! I say--" with the air of, You needn't tell me if you'd rather not--"was she a good one?" "She was a clipper." "What name?" "The _Dog Star_." This was beyond everything. "Oh--good. Did you ever hang fellows?" "We did." "Many?"