“What woman?” growled Jacynth, taking one hand out of his pocket to tilt his hat a little more over his eyes. “Why, Mrs.--Miss--Lady--by Jove, I scarcely know what to call her!” “That’s a good beginning,” said Jacynth sardonically. “No, no, my dear fellow, I really do know all about her; only it’s--it’s a little puzzling where to begin.” “Why begin?” The fat little gentleman reddened and frowned. Then his good nature, and his sense of obligation to the other man, and his pity for him (which, perhaps, rendered the sense of obligation easier to bear) conquered the momentary irritation. “The fact is, Jacynth,” he said, “I consider it my duty to tell you the story of Fenella Ffrench. No one knows it better than I do. You may hear it told by a score of men in town, who will be a deuced deal harder on the girl than I am. I have no animosity against her, poor little fool--none in the world. In fact, I rather like her.” “Very gratifying to the lady; but--excuse me--not of palpitating interest to me. Good-by. I think I shall go for a long spin.” “Stop a moment, Jacynth! Did you never hear of Lady Francis Onslow?” Jacynth turned round sharply and looked at him. “Lady Francis Onslow?” he repeated, putting his hand to his forehead and looking as though he were trying to recall some half-effaced recollections. “Lady Francis Onslow. She was a daughter of Colonel Fortescue Ffrench, of Crimean celebrity, and she married Frank Onslow when she was only seventeen, and three years afterward they were separated.” “Is that the woman?” “That is the woman.” “She looks such a child!” “I told you she was married when she was only seventeen.” “But he--Lord Francis--he is alive?” “Very much so! At least he looked alive enough when I saw him about half an hour ago.” “He is _here_?” “Yes. Look here, Jacynth; just let us take a turn somewhere; here, this is a quiet path, and----” “No; not there!” said Jacynth, drawing back roughly, as Lord Castleton laid his hand on his arm. It was the pathway where he had just been speaking with Fenella. “I don’t know why I should listen to you at all. What does it matter? Nothing you can say will do any good.” Nevertheless, he did listen. What man would not have listened? That he should believe it when it was told was another matter. Jacynth was a clever man, a man of brilliant talents and rising reputation in his profession. He had also certain special gifts which were not so generally recognized. He had a keen and almost intuitive insight into character, and a steady power of incredulity as to a vast proportion of the stories circulated in the “best society” on the “best authority.” At first sight this may seem no very extraordinary power. And perhaps it is not extraordinary, but it is certainly not common. The gossip of the smoking room, the little tattle of the clubs, penetrate, as a fine drizzling rain penetrates one’s clothing, into the consciousness of most men.