fortune. And
as he himself was not equal to bearing his incubus alone, he had put
it in the market. A brand new company had bought it--that is to say,
they had made him an offer--a ridiculously inadequate one, he was
told, but which he was determined to accept; at any rate, it would
leave him enough, when everything was paid, to live upon, for the
rest of his life. The legal preliminaries were now being settled:
they appeared to be interminable; but as in the meantime the
dock-gates were shut, and the clerks had departed, he could not, so
far as he saw, be losing money; that was a consolation.

He had not come to the end of his disquisition before he discovered
that he spoke to deaf ears. The old lady for once was inattentive:
she had sat screening her face from the fire with a large palm fan
while he unburdened himself, and she began now with a certain
hesitation:

"My pretext, Philip! When I said that I made it for you it was
only half true. In effect, my dear, I had something to tell
you--something disagreeable."

"Concerning me?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said--"something I have heard."

He looked vaguely across at her, finding her obscurity a little
strained, waiting for her to speak. The silence that intervened was
beginning to harass him, when she said suddenly:

"I will be quite plain. I think you ought to know. There is a
scandal abroad about you--about you and some woman."

"Some woman!" he repeated blankly. "What woman?" He leant back in
his chair, laughing his pleasant, low laugh. "I am sorry," he said,
"I can't be as seriously annoyed as I ought; it is too foolish. My
conscience really does not help me to discover her--this woman. Do
you know any more?"

She shook her head.

"It is not a nice story," she said. "No, I have heard no name; only
the story is current. I have heard it from three sources. I thought
you had better know of it."

"Thank you," he answered, rising to go. "Yes, it is a thing one may
as well know. It is very kind of them, these people, to take such
trouble, to be sufficiently interested. Upon my honour, I do not
know that I very much care. After all, what does it matter?"

"Nothing to me," said Lady Garnett, with a little shrug of
disdain--"nothing, _Dieu me pardonne_! even if it were true."

"Well, good-bye," he said.

As he held her hand for a moment between his own he thought it
trembled slightly.

"Ah, no!" she said quickly; "it is a phrase I decline. Come and s