“Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?”