"Me!"
"Yes. Didn't you say all the Fenleys were rubbish? One of them, at any rate, was wrongly classified."
"Which one?"
Trenholme bethought himself in time.
"This unfortunate banker, of course," he said.
"I'd a notion you meant Miss Sylvia. She's pretty as a picter—prettier than some picters I've seen—and folk speak well of her. But she's not a Fenley."
At any other time the artist would have received that thrust en tierce with a riposte; at present, Eliza's facts were more interesting than her wit.
"Who is the lady you are speaking of?" he asked guardedly.
"Mr. Fenley's ward, Miss Sylvia Manning. They say she's rich. Pore young thing! Some schemin' man will turn her head, I'll go bail, an' all for the sake of her brass."