“Ronny Onslow.”
“What are your trustees about?” he broke out, with subdued passion.
Fenella shrugged her slender shoulders, and laughed. “I was twenty-four years old yesterday,” she said, with apparent irrelevance; “did you remember?”
“I remembered,” he said curtly.
“Talking of trustees,” she said, “will you ever forget the talk, and fuss, and documents that day at Carlton House Terrace? I couldn’t help thinking of Lady Caroline Lamb, and how, when she and her husband were required to sign the deed of separation, the pair of them could nowhere be found! When discovered at last, Lady Caroline was on her husband’s knee, feeding him with bread and butter! But, though they parted, he loved her all the time,” went on Fenella, the little mocking voice grown suddenly wistful; “and it was on his faithful breast that she pillowed her dying head at last, and his kind voice that sped her on her way!”
“Yes,” said Frank, in a strained voice; “her faults were more of head than heart. But some women have not even hearts for faults to be bred in. Why did you do it?” he said suddenly, with a mist before his own eyes that hindered him from seeing the tears in hers.
“Hi! Onslow! I say, Onslow!” shouted a voice that seemed to come from beneath the horses’ feet, and both the young people peeped over to see a fat little man in white linen clothes, standing on tiptoe on the road, and blowing out his cheeks like a cherub’s.
“Why, Castleton!” cried Frank, “what are you doing there?”
“Walking down my fat, dear boy. I was looking heavenward, and saw you coming. Where do you hang out? Beastly water, rotten eggs, rusty iron, and a dash of old Nick. Oh, I say!” (catching sight of Fenella, not quite hidden by her sunshade) “is that really—well, you know, really—I am astonished—and delighted, too! I always said——”
“Drive on!” roared Frank, and on they went upon the instant, and Frank turned to look at Fenella. She was very pale, and very angry, with all the summer gladness gone out of her eyes and lips.