“Well, I will ‘hu-s-sh!’ as you wish it; but it will be shouted on the housetops some day. How you have kept the secret for so long amazes me; even Wynne’s old friends don’t know of your existence. His own distant relations have actually reinstated him. They believe that he made a fool of himself with a penniless shop-girl or teacher, and is now a _not_ disconsolate widower!” This was a very nasty speech; but Mr. Jessop was in a bad humour. When he looked round this luxurious abode, and had seen Mrs. Wynne receiving homage and dispensing favours among a little court, and then recalled his old schoolfellow’s quarters, his ascetic life, his laborious days--his heart became hot within him. “Why do you say such horrid things?” she asked petulantly. “When did you see Laurence last?” “I’ve not seen him for ages--centuries! Not since I dined with him in his chambers. I walked in and found him entertaining two men. Oh, I wish I could draw their faces!” “I wish you could! I heard of that. You gave the staircase something to talk about. Laurence is on circuit now. I dined with him a couple of weeks ago. He is working very hard--too hard; but he won’t mind any one. I must say you are a pretty pair!” “Thank you; it is not often that _you_ pay me a compliment!” she returned, with a bend of her head. “And Harry?” “He is very well.” “I must run down and see him when I can, as one of the duties of a godfather.” “Yes; he is growing quite a big boy, and will soon be able to use your knife and fork.” “I’m glad to hear it; but I should have thought he wanted some teeth first!” Then, as a clock chimed, “Hullo! that is half-past six, and I must go; and you are off next week, and go straight through to Nice _wagon de luxe_, and all that sort of thing?” “Of course,” with a slightly defiant smile. “Have you any message for _him_?” “No, thank you; I’m afraid you would be an indifferent Mercury. No, I have no message. Good-bye.” They shook hands rather limply, and he took leave. As the door closed on Mr. Jessop she gave a long sigh of relief, and was about to reseat herself, when her quick ear caught a sound behind a heavy velvet _portière_ which divided the room from an inner sanctum; it was the sound of the dropping of a small article, such as a bangle or thimble, on the parquet. Prompted by a sudden and inexplicable impulse, she pulled aside the curtain, and Mrs. Leach, with a blotter in her hand and an expression of embarrassment on her face, stood revealed. “I--I--was writing in there, dear, some urgent notes, and I have dropped my pet pen. It is one I am so fond of. Do help me to look for it, darling.” Mrs. Leach was inclined to embonpoint and rather stiff.