He smiled. “You are stronger than you think. You can suffice to yourself. But I hope that I shall never disappoint you.” “I have no fear of that,” she said, young again and confident. She thanked the Immortal Three with her eyes, and turning to Morosine, asked him, “Shall we go?” They went together. Passing the Demeter of Cnidos, her swinging hand touched his. He held his breath. Her face, sharply in profile, was as pure and pale as a silver coin. Her breast held her secret. To her own heart she voiced the cry, “Have I done well, dear one? Have I done well? Do you approve of me? Do you?” It may be that Senhouse heard her in his Wiltshire hills. XI Nevile Ingram was capable of fine ideas, we have seen, and could sometimes carry them out. He had had a moment of generosity, with Sanchia's letter in his hand, and held in the main to his expressed intentions. When he went to see her, at the end of three rigorous days, he behaved like a gentleman. She entered the room where he awaited her, pale for his embrace: he came to meet her, put his hand upon her shoulder, and, stooping, kissed her lightly. “My dear,” he said, “I'll deserve you yet;” and he really meant it. She was touched, and quite kind to him. He exhibited his version of her surrender. “We're friends, eh? We know each other of old, have no surprises, and can take raptures for granted. That's your notion, I fancy? It's not mine, but I'll be thankful for what you give me, and it shall be my fault if you find me backward when you're ready. Bygones are bygones, then? We make a new start?” She sat staidly under his gaze, not aware at the moment that his steel-blue eyes searched her avidly for a hint of more than he stated. “So far as I am concerned--certainly,” she said. “I shall never unlock any cupboards.” “Better to burn the contents, perhaps,” he laughed. “I tell you fairly, I had rather they were cleared out. Now, I'll confess to anything you please to ask me. That's a firm offer.” He would probably have done it, but she told him that she had no questions to put. “Very well, my dear,” he said. “Have it as you will. It's sublime of you--but it's not love. If you don't want to know it's because you don't care.” “No, indeed,” she sighed, with such conviction that he was stung. “Hang it all, Sancie,” he cried, “you can't have known me for eight years without feeling something.” She looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were full.