"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.
