It was plain to Morosine that she was very much concerned with this intelligence. She simply sat there, staring at Chevenix, shaking, moving her white lips. She was as white as chalk and her eyes burned black in her face. What on earth--who on earth--? He couldn't for the life of him make it out. He had never heard of the man. It was a shock to him to discover--so soon we flatter ourselves--that Sanchia had any reserve of confidence. He had felt so sure of her! “Another new poet?” he asked her. She recovered herself, shook her head. “He's not new--to me. He's the greatest friend I ever had.” That was all she could say. She turned to Chevenix, her desire fainting in her eyes. “You're going to see him? Oh, take me with you!” “Right,” said Chevenix. BOOK V -- OF THE NATURE OF AN EPILOGUE, DEALING WITH DESPOINA I Her spirits on the rebound, her courage waving in her face, like the flag on a citadel, she hesitated at nothing. On Chevenix's suggestion that they must “play the game with Nevile,” she told her betrothed what she proposed to do. He had raised his eyebrows, but said, “Why not?” “I thought you didn't love each other,” had been her answer, and he had responded: “Well, I have no reason to dislike him. In fact, he gave you to me, if you remember.” He chuckled over the memory. “When the thing between us was at its reddest heat, your man came pelting up to me. He had seen you, it appears, and nothing would stop him. I never told you this tale, but you may as well have it now. The man's a lunatic, you know. What do you think he wanted? How do you think he put it? As thus: 'I loathe you, my dear man'--I'm giving you the substance--'You stand for everything I'm vowed to destroy; but I hope you'll marry her, and tie her to you for life.' That was his little plan. As you know, I couldn't oblige him. He thought I could!” She had been staring out of the window while he harangued from the hearthrug, his favourite post in a room. At this time she had no eyes but for the Open Country, or what of it could be seen over the chimney-pots. But at those last words she did turn and look at him! “Why did he think you could?” It was for Ingram then to stare. “Why did he think so? My dear, I'll tell you why no sane man would have thought so, if you insist. He thought that as I had lived alone ever since Claire bolted, I could get a divorce. That's what _he_ thought.” Sanchia pondered his reply, facing the window again. Ingram fidgeted, with his hands in his pockets. “Men don't live like that,” he said. Sanchia did not move. More as if it were to satisfy herself than to credit him, she said, to the window and street beyond it, “I wonder that he didn't remember that you would never drag any one into notoriety whom you had once--loved.” Ingram grinned.