“She writes comprehensively enough when she writes to M. de Bassompierre: he who runs may read.” (In fact, Ginevra’s epistles to her wealthy kinsman were commonly business documents, unequivocal applications for cash.) “And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I should think?” It was, and I said so. “I verily believe that all she does is well done,” said Dr. John; and as I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added “You, who know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?” “She does several things very well.” (“Flirtation amongst the rest,” subjoined I, in thought.) “When do you suppose she will return to town?” he soon inquired. “Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in ascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not the felicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans and secrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than mine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance.” He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to his own! “Excuse her,” he said; “judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashion misleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow, and will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I know something of the Cholmondeleys: superficial, showy, selfish people; depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score of such.” “You are very kind,” I said briefly. A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but I extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the humiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission. “Yet, you see,” continued Graham, “while I comfort _you_, I cannot take the same consolation to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice. De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched delusion!” My patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle. “Dr. Bretton,” I broke out, “there is no delusion like your own. On all points but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking, clear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I declare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor have you mine.” I got up, and left the room very much excited.