She gave him grateful looks, but said little. Nevertheless, he went away encouraged. A week or so later she found a card upon her table: that of a Mrs. John Chevenix. “That's my sister-in-law,” the friendly youth presently told her. “That's Mrs. John. You go and see her. She's a good sort of woman. You'll meet Aunt Wenman there. I thought it all out, and that's the way to get at it. She'll jump at you, in my opinion. She loves orphans. Collects 'em. You go!” She was due in the city on a visit to her father, was, in fact, dressed for it in her best white frock, roses in her hat. She promised to think of it--and of course would return Mrs. John's call. The amiable Chevenix accompanied her as far eastward as it was possible for him to go. He went, indeed, farther, and in full view of Saint Paul's decided upon a visit to that sanctuary. You never know your luck, he said. He might meet Senhouse there. He had been hunting the recessed philosopher high and low. “Great sport if we met him now--you, who look like lunching at the Savoy or somewhere, and he like a fakir! What should you do? Fall in his arms?” Sanchia had mist over the eyes. “I believe I should,” she admitted. “I should love to see him again.” “He'll turn up at Aunt Wenman's, I'll bet you,” Chevenix felt sure. “She rakes 'em in--all sorts. Do you think about her, now, there's a dear. You won't be able to stick it at home, you know.” “I am sure that I shan't go home,” Sanchia said. “And I _am_ thinking about your aunt.” “Right,” cried Chevenix, and briskly mounted the steps of the cathedral. Mr. Percival had provided a tea for her which had the appearance of a banquet. The table seemed sunk in flowers; a great urn held the tea. There were buns in pyramids, snow-mantled cakes, apricot jam, strawberries, clotted cream. Nothing was too good for his beloved, as he cried aloud when he saw her, fresh and glowing in her lace frock and flower-wreathed hat. “My girl--and upon my soul, a picture!” She blushed at his praises, and came within kissing distance. “You make a school-treat of me, dearest. You mustn't be wicked with your money, or I shan't come any more to see you. I won't be spoiled.” “No, my dear, no--and you can't be,” he assured her. “Good Lord, my child, you're the only one I've got left. All my birds flown but you! And I had five of the sweetest, sauciest, happiest girls in England once upon a time.... Now, come you and pour out a cup of tea for your foolish old father. We're snug here--hey? Better than Great Cumberland--hey? You monkey!” He pinched her ear--and felt that they shared a secret.