"Oh! no--frightened away--you'll never see them there again. There's nothing absolutely in it, and never was, not even an adventure. Nothing but the little that happened long ago--and you know all about that," continued Sedley. "She's a wonderfully beautiful creature, though; I wish you saw her again, Cleve. You're such a clever fellow, you'd make a poem of her, or something--she'd bring you back to the days of chivalry, and that style of thing. I'm a sort of fellow, you know, that feels a lot, and I think, I _think_ some too; but I haven't the knack of saying it, or writing it--I'm not particularly good at anything; but I went that morning, you know, into the Refectory--you know--there are such a lot of stairs, and long places and doors, it makes a fellow quite foolish--and there she was--don't you remember?--I wish I could describe her to you gardening there with her gloves on." "Don't try--you've tried so often--there's a good fellow; but just tell me her name?" said Cleve, looking straight before him, above the lamps and the slanting slates and chimneys, into the deep sky, where brilliantly, spite of London smoke, shone the clear sad moon. "Her name?--I never found out, except Margaret--I don't know; but I believe they did not want their name told." "That did not look well--did it?" suggested Cleve. "Well, no more it generally does; but it is not her fault. It was--in fact it was--for I _did_ find it out, I may as well tell you--old Sir Booth Fanshawe, you know he's broken--not worth a guinea--and always running about from place to place to avoid pursuit, in fact. It can't signify, you know, now that I think of it, mentioning him, because, of course, he's gone somewhere else long ago." So said romantic little Sedley, and Cleve sneered. "I see you can tell a fib on occasion, Tom, like another man. So you found out the name, and knew it all the time you were protesting ignorance. And who told you _that_? People here thought Sir Booth had gone to Italy." "Well, it was--but you mustn't tell him I told you. There was a Jew fellow down at Malory, with a writ and a lot of fellows to nab him; but the old fellow was off; and the Jew, thinking that Wynne Williams knew where he was, came to his office and offered him a hatfull of money to tell, and he was going to kick him out; and that's the way _he_ found out it was old Sir Booth; and he is awfully afraid of getting into a scrape about it, if the old people heard who the tenant was." "So he would--the worst scrape he ever was in, with my _uncle_, at all events. And that d--d Larkin would get into the management of everything, I suppose. I hope, you have not been telling everyone?" "Not a soul--not a human being." "There are some of the Cardyllian people that hardly come under that term; and, by Jove, if you breathe it to one of them, it's all over the town, and my uncle will be sure to hear it; and poor Wynne Williams!--you'll be the ruin of him, very likely."