"What d'you make of it, Dolly?" the big man asked. "Husband?"
The Jew shook his head decisively. "No, no, my boy! She's not a marrit woman. Relations, more likely. Eh?—ah?"
"Or lovers, likelier still. It's highly respectable, anyway. They've got the old lady to come along. That looks as if he were French."
"I'd like to meet the liddle girl, alone," said Dollfus, fervently.
"Some dark night?—eh, Dolly!" remarked Sir Bryan, beginning to whip the Dominion director's stout calves and thighs with the handle of the putter he was carrying. "You're such a devil—such a devil, Dolly."
Mr. Dollfus raised a corrective hand.
"Don't mithtake my meaning, Lumpsden," he said, getting out of the sportive baronet's long reach as quickly as was consistent with dignity. "I only wanter tell her she's got a forchune in her feet and legth if she'd go in training. I oughter know something about legth, oughtn't I, old fellow. Becoth it's my bizzyness, ain't it, Lumpsden?"
"Tell the lunatic in the red shirt instead," the baronet suggested, derisively. "She's bored, anyway. See her bat her eyelid when we bowed? Oh yes, she did, Dolly. Just one little flicker—but I caught it. Hullo! there's Grogan and old Moon at the tenth hole."
And, this being a world where the incredible is always happening, it is possible that Bryan Lumsden didn't think of Fenella again that day.