“Because she had a dream that Mr. Goldenheart had found the lost girl, and because she thought there was one chance in a hundred that her dream might come true! Did you ever hear of such a fool before? From what I could make out, I believe she actually cried about it. And that same woman turns me into the street to be ruined, for all she knows or cares. Mind this! I would have kept her secret--it was no business of mine, after all--if she had behaved decently to me. As it is, I mean to be even with her; and what I heard down in the kitchen is more than enough to help me to it. I’ll expose her somehow--I don’t quite know how; but that will come with time. You will keep the secret, dear, I’m sure. We are soon to have all our secrets in common, when we are man and wife, ain’t we? Why, you’re not listening to me! What _is_ the matter with you?” Jervy suddenly looked up. His soft insinuating manner had vanished; he spoke roughly and impatiently. “I want to know something. Has Farnaby’s wife got money of her own?” Phoebe’s mind was still disturbed by the change in her lover. “You speak as if you were angry with me,” she said. Jervy recovered his insinuating tones, with some difficulty. “My dear girl, I love you! How can I be angry with you? You’ve set me thinking--and it bothers me a little, that’s all. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Farnaby has got money of her own?” Phoebe answered this time. “I’ve heard Miss Regina say that Mrs. Farnaby’s father was a rich man,” she said. “What was his name?” “Ronald.” “Do you know when he died?” “No.” Jervy fell into thought again, biting his nails in great perplexity. After a moment or two, an idea came to him. “The tombstone will tell me!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. He turned to Phoebe, before she could express her surprise, and asked if she knew where Mr. Ronald was buried. “Yes,” said Phoebe, “I’ve heard that. In Highgate cemetery. But why do you want to know?” Jervy looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said; “I’ll see you safe home.” “But I want to know--” “Put on your bonnet, and wait till we are out in the street.” Jervy paid the bill, with all needful remembrance of the waiter. He was generous, he was polite; but he was apparently in no hurry to favour Phoebe with the explanation that he had promised. They had left the tavern for some minutes--and he was still rude enough to remain absorbed in his own reflections. Phoebe’s patience gave way. “I have told you everything,” she said reproachfully; “I don’t call it fair dealing to keep me in the dark after that.” He roused himself directly. “My dear girl, you entirely mistake me!”