Vicky hugged her. “You dear one! prettiness is your complaint. I should like him to have some of that.” She held her at arms' length, looked and glowed, and kissed. She took a serious tone, for the matter was serious. “You know, Sancie, you're the only beauty in our family, the only real beauty. Philippa's awfully handsome, I know, and greatly admired--and I've always said that Melot was _lovely_. There are those three sorts of women, you know. Philippa's handsome, Melot's lovely, and you're beautiful. Then there's prettiness. I know I'm rather pretty: everybody says so. Besides, there's Cuthbert. Oh, you can always tell! For one thing--he's so fussy about my clothes--you've no idea.” She preened herself, like a pigeon in the sun, before she returned to her praises. “But you! You're quite different. You're like a goddess.” She touched her curiously. “Yes, I thought so. Exactly like a goddess.” She sighed. “I can't think how you do it. Swedish exercises? I know it's wonderful what they do for you--_in no time_. But you have to think about them all the while, and I think of Cuthbert--and Dickie--and the horses--and, oh, all sorts of things! Those sort, I mean,--nice things.” She pondered Sanchia's godhead, shaking her pretty draperies out, then recalled herself. “Oh, yes, about coming here. Of course I knew that Mamma would make a fuss--but I had determined long ago, before I dreamed that it would ever happen, not to tell _her_ a word. It was only Cuthbert who made me feel--well, _serious_. He is so wise, such a man of the world! But I told him that I meant to come whatever he could say--and afterwards it turned out that he wanted to come too. He was really quite keen. Wasn't that sweet of him? You would adore Cuthbert if you knew him as well as I do. But, of course, that's absurd.” She suddenly became intense. “Sancie!” she said, then stopped and peered. “Yes?” It was a sobered goddess who waited for close quarters. Vicky put her question, but peered no more. “I wish you would tell me one thing, which--has always puzzled me. But don't, if you would rather not. How did you--I simply can't understand it--how did you ever--? I suppose you loved him very much?” Sanchia was in a hard stare. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I suppose I did.” Vicky's head darted back. “Ah! But now you don't a bit. I knew you didn't! Sancie, that's what I can't understand. Because, you know, when you're married you do. You always love the same person. You must--you can't help it. He's so natural; he knows things that you know. He knows--everything. Oh, Sancie, I can't talk about it, but you understand, don't you?”