There had been one who would have had it all out of her in a trice. But he was remote, a part of her childhood. She hardly called him to mind at this hour. It was dangerous work to think of him, she knew--and her old fortitude stood by her, which said, Turn your mind resolutely away from that which may influence your judgment. Senhouse was not a stoic; he was an epicurean, she now considered. She wanted something flintier than Senhouse. He might have tried to dissuade her; but her mind was now made up. She intended to marry Nevile. She breakfasted alone, and immediately afterwards went upstairs to write her agreement. The thing was to be gone through with, and the sooner the better. “MY DEAR NEVILE,” she wrote, “if it can ever be right to marry without love, it must be in my case. I don't blame you in the least for what happened. It was as much my doing as yours--and I still think that I was right. And now I think that it is right to fulfil one's bargain--as it would have been if I had married you. If I had been married to you, I should not have left you unless you told me to go, and I don't think that I ought to now. If you really wish it, you shall marry me when you please, and I will do my duty by you always. Whatever arrangements you make will suit me quite well; but the less fuss we make the better. I am sure that you will think so too. Don't come to see me for a few days if you don't mind. I want to think.--Yours affectionately, SANCHIA.” It was not a very gracious letter, it must be owned. So young and so untender! One would have said that the man must be a courageous lover who would take marriage on such terms; but either Ingram was very much in love, or honestly hoped to be loved again. I incline to the opinion of Bill Chevenix, to whom he showed it. “Nevile, old chap,” he said, “you take her on any terms. You've no idea how set up you'll feel by everybody saying you've done the square thing. I tell you frankly that she's too good for you. Look how she's shaped in Charles Street! As if she'd been born to it. And never once--never once--allowed to anybody that she's been in the wrong. Not to a soul. And neither you nor I believe that she has--nor did old Dosshouse, or whatever his name was.” Ingram knew quite well to whom he so airily referred. “I shall have landed that chap once for all, anyhow,” he said. “Landed him!” cried the other. “Why, bless you, didn't you know? He landed himself two years after you did. He's married.” “Married, is he?” Ingram asked, not thinking of Senhouse in particular. “Who did he marry?” “He married a rather pretty woman, a widow, a Mrs. Germain.” Ingram looked sharply up. “I'll take my oath he didn't. I met her the other day. She's Mrs. Duplessis.” Chevenix stared at him. “Why, I know the chap. Where did you meet her? Where do they live?” he asked his friend.