“I’m coming on very well, thank you,” said Hyacinth, with some shortness, not knowing exactly what business it was of the Captain’s. “Of course you understand my interest in you, don’t you? I’m responsible for you—I put you forward.” “There are a great many things in the world that I don’t understand, but I think the thing I understand least is your interest in me. Why the devil—” And Hyacinth paused, breathless with the force of his inquiry. Then he went on, “If I were you, I shouldn’t care a filbert for the sort of person that I happen to be.” “That proves how different my nature is from yours! But I don’t believe it, my boy; you are too generous for that.” Sholto’s imperturbability always appeared to grow with the irritation it produced, and it was proof even against the just resentment excited by his want of tact. That want of tact was sufficiently marked when he went on to say, “I wanted to see you here, with my own eyes. I wanted to see how it looked; it _is_ a rum sight! Of course you know what I mean, though you are always trying to make a fellow explain. I don’t explain well, in any sense, and that’s why I go in only for clever people, who can do without it. It’s very grand, her having brought you down.” “Grand, no doubt, but hardly surprising, considering that, as you say, I was put forward by you.” “Oh, that’s a great thing for me, but it doesn’t make any difference to her!” Sholto exclaimed. “She may care for certain things for themselves, but it will never signify a jot to her what I may have thought about them. One good turn deserves another. I wish you would put _me_ forward!” “I don’t understand you, and I don’t think I want to,” said Hyacinth, as his companion strolled beside him. The latter put a hand on his arm, stopping him, and they stood face to face a moment. “I say, my dear Robinson, you’re not spoiled already, at the end of a week—how long is it? It isn’t possible you’re jealous!” “Jealous of whom?” asked Hyacinth, whose failure to comprehend was perfectly genuine. Sholto looked at him a moment; then, with a laugh, “I don’t mean Miss Henning.” Hyacinth turned away, and the Captain resumed his walk, now taking the young man’s arm and passing his own through the bridle of the horse. “The courage of it, the insolence, the _crânerie!_ There isn’t another woman in Europe who could carry it off.” Hyacinth was silent a little; after which he remarked, “This is nothing, here. You should have seen me the other day over at Broome, at Lady Marchant’s.” “Gad, did she take you there? I’d have given ten pounds to see it. There’s no one like her!” cried the Captain, gaily, enthusiastically. “There’s no one like me, I think—for going.” “Why, didn’t you enjoy it?” “Too much—too much. Such excesses are dangerous.” “Oh, I’ll back you,” said the Captain; then, checking their pace, he inquired, “Is there any chance of our meeting her? I won’t go into the park.” “You won’t go to the house?” Hyacinth demanded, staring.