the queerest fish in the sea! But you know all that, of course."

Mrs. Germain, a brunette with the power of glowing, coloured becomingly,
and veiled her fine eyes with somewhat heavy and heavily-fringed eye-lids.
"Oh, yes," she said, "I have known him for a long time."

"Met him abroad, I suppose--tinkering round, as he does. The everlasting
loafer, artist, tinker, poet, gardener. 'Pon my soul, he's like the game
we used to do with cherry-stones round the pudding plate. Don't you know?
Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, and all the rest. He's all those things,
and has two pair of bags to his name, and lives in a cart, and's a
gentleman. Not a doubt about that, mind you, Mrs. Germain."

She smiled upon him kindly. "None at all," she said. "I like him
extremely."

"You would, you know," said Chevenix, his tones rich in sympathy. "All
women do. You couldn't help it. You've got such a kind heart. All women
have. Now, I've known Senhouse himself five or six years, but I've known
about him for at least eight. I used to hear about him from morn to dewy
eve, once upon a time, from one--of--the--loveliest and most charming
girls you ever met in your life. Did you know her? A Miss Percival--
Sanchia Percival. We used to call her Sancie. Thought you might have met
her, perhaps. No? Well, this chap Senhouse would have gone through the
fire for her. He would have said his prayers to her. Did you ever see his
poems about her? My word! He published 'em after the row, you know. He as
good as identified her with--well, we won't mention names, Mrs. Germain,
but he identified her with a certain holy lady not a hundred miles from
the Kingdom of Heaven. Blasphemous old chap--he did, though."