‘Buttermore!’ ejaculated Fenellan:  ’Groseman Buttermore!  Mrs. Victor’s Father Confessor is the Rev. Septimus Barmby.  Groseman Buttermore—­Septimus Barmby.  Is there anything in names?  Truly, unless these clerical gentlemen take them up at the crossing of the roads long after birth, the names would appear the active parts of them, and themselves mere marching supports, like the bearers of street placard-advertisements.  Now, I know a Septimus Barmby, and you a Groseman Buttermore, and beyond the fact that Reverend starts up before their names without mention, I wager it’s about all we do know of them.  They’re Society’s trusty rock-limpets, no doubt.’

‘My respect for the cloth is extreme.’  Carling’s short cough prepared the way for deductions.  ‘Between ourselves, they are men of the world.’

Fenellan eyed benevolently the worthy attorney, whose innermost imp burst out periodically, like a Dutch clocksentry, to trot on his own small grounds for thinking himself of the community of the man of the world.  ‘You lawyers dress in another closet,’ he said.  ’The Rev. Groseman has the ear of the lady?’

‘He has:—­one ear.’

‘Ah?  She has the other open for a man of the world, perhaps.’

’Listens to him, listens to me, listens to Jarniman; and we neither of us guide her.  She’s very curious—­a study.  You think you know her—­next day she has eluded you.  She’s emotional, she’s hard; she’s a woman, she’s a stone.  Anything you like; but don’t count on her.  And another thing—­I’m bound to say it of myself,’ Carling claimed close hearing of Fenellan over a shelf of saladstuff, ’no one who comes near her has any real weight with her in this matter.’

‘Probably you mix cream in your salad of the vinegar and oil,’ said Fenellan.  ’Try jelly of mutton.’—­’You give me a new idea.  Latterly, fond as I am of salads, I’ve had rueful qualms.  We’ll try it.’

‘You should dine with Victor Radnor.’

‘French cook, of course!’

‘Cordon bleu.’

‘I like to be sure of my cutlet.’

‘I like to be sure of a tastiness in my vegetables.’

‘And good sauces!’

’And pretty pastry.  I said, Cordon bleu.  The miracle is, it ’s a woman that Victor Radnor has trained:  French, but a woman; devoted to him, as all who serve him are.  Do I say “but” a woman?  There’s not a Frenchman alive to match her.  Vatel awaits her in Paradise with his arms extended; and may he wait long!’

Carling indulged his passion for the genuine by letting a flutter of real envy be seen.  ’My wife would like to meet such a Frenchwoman.  It must be a privilege to dine with him—­to know him.  I know what he has done for English Commerce, and to build a colossal fortune:  genius, as I said:  and his donations to Institutions.  Odd, to read his name and Mrs. Burman Radnor’s at separate places in the lists!  Well, we’ll hope.  It’s a case for a compromise of sentiments and claims.’