Lady Maria, however, who never made a fuss over spilt milk, lost no time in ladling up what might be possible. She asked Ingram to luncheon, and was accepted with a cheerful, “Thanks, most happy.” It may have been malice which turned her to Morosine with the question. “And you? Will you join us?” Morosine promptly excused himself. He had guests, and must consider them. He took ceremonious leave. “You remember, I hope, that I am to see you on Thursday, Lady Maria. And Miss Percival?” He looked to Sanchia, who did not turn him her eyes. “Perfectly,” said her ladyship. “What's your hour?” “We will dine at half-past eight.” He named the restaurant. He turned to pay his farewells to Sanchia. She looked him No, being unable to speak to him. Her eyes, deep lakes of woe, were crying to him. His answered. He held out his hand and received hers. “Thursday,” he repeated, and left her with her fate. Lady Maria, at luncheon, made what she called the best of a bad business. She treated Ingram to a brisk curiosity. “So you're a wanderer, I hear--like the Gay Cavalier of my childhood. Your mother may have heard the song. Mine sang it. I believe that that kind of thing was considered heroic in her day; in ours, heroism is more difficult, and much more dull. You might try heroism, Mr. Ingram.” “I might, no doubt,” Ingram said. “Hitherto, I've preferred to travel. But I'm home for good now, so far as I can see.” “We all hope so,” said Lady Maria. “But that remains to be seen.” “Of course it does,” said Ingram blandly, and turned to Sanchia. “I thought your mother looking very well. Your father wasn't there. I saw Philippa, by the way; but I suppose she didn't remember me. That was her husband with her, I take it. Stiff old boy.” So he went on, letting bygones be bygones. It was after luncheon that her ordeal came. Lady Maria having departed for her siesta, he came instantly to Sanchia with his hand out for her. “Sancie, I couldn't talk before all those people. You must forgive me, my dear. You are too good a sort--you must forgive me.” He had to wait; but slowly she lifted her hand and let him take it. “I have forgiven you,” she said. He stroked her arm. “That's nice of you--that's like you. I know that I behaved like a brute. I was awfully cut up about it afterwards--but, as you know, I had great provocation.” “Not from me, I think.” Her eyes were upon him now. “No, no,” he admitted; “certainly not from you; but--well, perhaps I may say that I had some ground for thinking that you--possibly--No, I don't think I ought to say that. At any rate, I thought then that I had. As for that young friend of yours--but he's nothing. It's you I want to make my peace with.” “It's not difficult,” she said. “I tell you that I don't bear any malice. I bore none at the time. I wanted to go.”