Her spirits on the rebound, her courage waving in her face, like the flag on a citadel, she hesitated at nothing. On Chevenix's suggestion that they must “play the game with Nevile,” she told her betrothed what she proposed to do. He had raised his eyebrows, but said, “Why not?”

“I thought you didn't love each other,” had been her answer, and he had responded:

“Well, I have no reason to dislike him. In fact, he gave you to me, if you remember.” He chuckled over the memory. “When the thing between us was at its reddest heat, your man came pelting up to me. He had seen you, it appears, and nothing would stop him. I never told you this tale, but you may as well have it now. The man's a lunatic, you know. What do you think he wanted? How do you think he put it? As thus: 'I loathe you, my dear man'—I'm giving you the substance—'You stand for everything I'm vowed to destroy; but I hope you'll marry her, and tie her to you for life.' That was his little plan. As you know, I couldn't oblige him. He thought I could!”

She had been staring out of the window while he harangued from the hearthrug, his favourite post in a room. At this time she had no eyes but for the Open Country, or what of it could be seen over the chimney-pots. But at those last words she did turn and look at him! “Why did he think you could?”

It was for Ingram then to stare. “Why did he think so? My dear, I'll tell you why no sane man would have thought so, if you insist. He thought that as I had lived alone ever since Claire bolted, I could get a divorce. That's what he thought.”

Sanchia pondered his reply, facing the window again. Ingram fidgeted, with his hands in his pockets. “Men don't live like that,” he said. Sanchia did not move. More as if it were to satisfy herself than to credit him, she said, to the window and street beyond it, “I wonder that he didn't remember that you would never drag any one into notoriety whom you had once—loved.” Ingram grinned.

“As your man Glyde tried to drag you, my dear! Well, that's one way of accounting for old Senhouse, certainly. I don't know that that would have stood in the light, after the way she behaved. Notoriety! She managed that for herself.”

“Then—” she began, but did not finish. She stopped, looked sharply about her, out of window, across the room, seemed to be listening to something, or for something. Then she said, “I see.” For the rest of the evening she was very quiet, burning in a hidden fire.

Here was Saturday, and to-morrow she should see him again—the man who had loved her so much that he had never kissed her. Love such as that, rendered in kisses, was unthinkable. She knew that she must not think of it, though she could not help her dreams. But there was no fear. The man who had not dared to kiss her when he might should find that she was worthy of such high honour.

Through the strings blew the wind from the south-west. “I love him—I shall see him to-morrow—I shall never tell him so—but he will read it in my eyes. He never kissed me when he might—he will not do it now when he must not. I am a fool, a fool, a fool! Thank God, I am a fool again!”