“Well!” says Sir Leicester tremulously.  “Well!  You should know, Mr. Tulkinghorn.  You have been among them.”

“Really, Sir Leicester,” returns the lawyer, “I state the fact.  Why, I could tell you a story—­with Lady Dedlock’s permission.”

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted.  A story!  Oh, he is going to tell something at last!  A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?

“No.  Real flesh and blood.”  Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony, “Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock.  Sir Leicester, these particulars have only lately become known to me.  They are very brief.  They exemplify what I have said.  I suppress names for the present.  Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?”

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking towards the moonlight.  By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can be seen, perfectly still.

“A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter who attracted the notice of a great lady.  I speak of really a great lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your condition, Sir Leicester.”

Sir Leicester condescendingly says, “Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.

“The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl, and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.  Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she had preserved for many years.  In fact, she had in early life been engaged to marry a young rake—­he was a captain in the army—­ nothing connected with whom came to any good.  She never did marry him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father.”

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the moonlight.  By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile, perfectly still.

“The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but a train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to discovery.  As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be always guarded.  There was great domestic trouble and amazement, you may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the husband’s grief.  But that is not the present point.  When Mr. Rouncewell’s townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be patronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes.  Such was his pride, that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace.  He had no sense of the honour done him and his daughter by the lady’s condescension; not the least.  He resented the girl’s position, as if the lady had been the commonest of commoners.  That is the story.  I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature.”