“Yes, like this--free to do as I like--the world before me--” She fronted the blue valley for a moment, and then turned to the wind--“and the wind in my face, ever since I left Wanless?” Then she reflected with wide and wondering eyes. “And before that--long before. I haven't been free, you know, ever since I knew Nevile. Oh!”--and she inhaled the spirit of the hour--“Oh, I could fall down and hug the earth. Don't you love the thymy smell? I don't know why, but it always makes me think of poetry--and _that_.” She lifted her rapt face to where, like a fountain of sound, a lark flooded the blue. “To lift up, and up, and up, to be so lovely because one was so glad! Nobody could do that!--except Jack,” she added half in a whisper. “That old chap's not a man,” said Chevenix, “he's a spirit.” “They used to call him the Faun, at Bill Hill, where I first met him,” she said. “I fancy now that I never knew him at all. But he knew all about me. That's why I'm so happy. Nobody has ever known me since--and it's such a bore to have to explain yourself. Other people seem to think I am extraordinary. I'm not at all--I'm the most ordinary person in the world. But he liked me like that.” Chevenix, watching her, said, “He'll like you like this, I expect. May I tell you that you're a heady compound? Do be quiet. Remember that I'm holding the chain. I won't swear to every link.” She laughed, and pressed forward, the wind kissing her eyes. They reached the racecourse, and had, behind them and before, two valleys. Their road lay now due west, keeping the ridge--a broad grass track belted rarely by woods on the north, but open on the south to hill and vale in diversity of sun and shade, a billowy sea of grass where no sign of man was to be seen. Sanchia's heart was so light she scarcely touched the ground. She swam the air, not flew. Chevenix pounded in her wake. “You know,” he told her by and by, “he's alone here? A solitary figure? Doing the hermit? Crying in the Wilderness?” She had guessed, but not known that. Caution set a guard upon her eyes and tongue. “Do you mean--that he's always alone?” “Bless you, yes. His lady couldn't stick it. She fled. But she's quite fond of him--in her way. I found out his address from her. She was quite glad I was going to see him. But she never goes herself, I believe. She's married. Other views altogether, she has. Or _he_ has--her husband, you know. It was a rum business altogether, her taking up with old Senhouse. I could have told her what would come of that, if she'd asked me. No malice, you know--now. They're good friends. Write to each other. As a fact, she's married. She was a widow. She married a man I know, a chap in the House, name of Duplessis. Sulky chap, but able. Keeps her in order. Old Senhouse will speak about it--you see if he don't.”