“He told me such a delicious story yesterday,” she went on, her face breaking up into dimples. “It was about a little girl upon whose mother a horrid old woman was calling. When the old woman got up to depart, she said to the child, ‘You’ll come and see me, my dear, won’t you?’ ‘Oh, yes!’ said the child, ‘But you don’t know where I live?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ said the child, nodding. ‘I know who is your next-door neighbor.’ ‘Who is that?’ says the old woman. ‘Why, _mother_ says you are next door to a fool!’” But Frank did not smile. It is curious that a man’s sense of humor is usually entirely in abeyance when matters of stern import engross him, while a woman’s is usually at its keenest when tragedy is in the air. “What do people think at the hotel?” he burst out in the undertone both had maintained throughout the conversation. “That I am a widow,” she said coolly; “that is to say, if they turn up the hotel list of visitors.” “What name have you inscribed?” he said coldly. “Fenella Ffrench. I suppose I have a right to my own name?” “And the child’s?” “Ronny Onslow.” “What are your trustees about?” he broke out, with subdued passion. Fenella shrugged her slender shoulders, and laughed. “I was twenty-four years old yesterday,” she said, with apparent irrelevance; “did you remember?” “I remembered,” he said curtly. “Talking of trustees,” she said, “will you ever forget the talk, and fuss, and documents that day at Carlton House Terrace? I couldn’t help thinking of Lady Caroline Lamb, and how, when she and her husband were required to sign the deed of separation, the pair of them could nowhere be found! When discovered at last, Lady Caroline was on her husband’s knee, feeding him with bread and butter! But, though they parted, he loved her all the time,” went on Fenella, the little mocking voice grown suddenly wistful; “and it was on _his_ faithful breast that she pillowed her dying head at last, and his kind voice that sped her on her way!” “Yes,” said Frank, in a strained voice; “her faults were more of head than heart. But some women have not even hearts for faults to be bred in. Why did you do it?” he said suddenly, with a mist before his own eyes that hindered him from seeing the tears in hers. “Hi! Onslow! I say, _Onslow_!” shouted a voice that seemed to come from beneath the horses’ feet, and both the young people peeped over to see a fat little man in white linen clothes, standing on tiptoe on the road, and blowing out his cheeks like a cherub’s. “Why, Castleton!” cried Frank, “what are you doing there?” “Walking down my fat, dear boy. I was looking heavenward, and saw you coming. Where do you hang out? Beastly water, rotten eggs, rusty iron, and a dash of old Nick. Oh, I say!” (catching sight of Fenella, not quite hidden by her sunshade) “is that really--well, you know, really--I _am_ astonished--and delighted, _too_! I always said----”