Mrs. Germain, a brunette with the power of glowing, coloured becomingly, and veiled her fine eyes with somewhat heavy and heavily-fringed eye-lids. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I have known him for a long time.” “Met him abroad, I suppose--tinkering round, as he does. The everlasting loafer, artist, tinker, poet, gardener. 'Pon my soul, he's like the game we used to do with cherry-stones round the pudding plate. Don't you know? Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, and all the rest. He's all those things, and has two pair of bags to his name, and lives in a cart, and's a gentleman. Not a doubt about that, mind you, Mrs. Germain.” She smiled upon him kindly. “None at all,” she said. “I like him extremely.” “You would, you know,” said Chevenix, his tones rich in sympathy. “All women do. You couldn't help it. You've got such a kind heart. All women have. Now, I've known Senhouse himself five or six years, but I've known about him for at least eight. I used to hear about him from morn to dewy eve, once upon a time, from one--of--the--loveliest and most charming girls you ever met in your life. Did you know her? A Miss Percival--Sanchia Percival. We used to call her Sancie. Thought you might have met her, perhaps. No? Well, this chap Senhouse would have gone through the fire for her. He would have said his prayers to her. Did you ever see his poems about her? My word! He published 'em after the row, you know. He as good as identified her with--well, we won't mention names, Mrs. Germain, but he identified her with a certain holy lady not a hundred miles from the Kingdom of Heaven. Blasphemous old chap--he did, though.” Mrs. Germain, toying with her scent-bottle, was interested. “I never heard him speak about a Miss Percival,” she said. She used a careless tone, but her flickering eyelids betrayed her. “You wouldn't, you know,” he told her with the same sympathetic earnestness. “There was too much of a row. He was cut all to pieces. I thought he'd go under; but he's not that sort. Who called somebody--some political johnny--the Sea-green Incorruptible? Oh, ask me another! You might call old Senhouse the Green-tea Irrepressible; for that was his drink (to keep himself awake all night, writin' poems), and there never was a cork that would hold him down--not even Sancie Percival. No, no, out he must come--fizzling.” “I see,” said Mrs. Germain, still looking at her fingers in her lap. “I'm very much interested. You mean that he was very much--that he paid her a great deal of attention?”