Ingram was staring blankly out of window. “I think a year. I don't know. You went out with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, and so's this--just. So you can work it out. D'you want me to fix you up? You're in the east wing, you know--I expect you are, anyhow. Where you were before.” “Right,” said Chevenix; “right. Only we're none of us where we were before, my boy. Don't flatter yourself.” He shut _Bradshaw_ with a bang, and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, “No change, no change from Sanchia,” which he turned into “Who is Sanchia? What is she, that all our swains...?” [Illustration: The housekeeper! This--person!] Miss Percival, having played the exact and perfect housekeeper above--with no apparent interest in life but submergence in her duties--returned to the ground floor and sought Minnie in the dining-room. She made her survey calmly, and gave such orders as pertained in smooth tones which could not jar. She seemed to consult where she really directed. “Shall we have the _epergne?_ I think we will, don't you? Yes. It's a grand occasion. I don't think we have ever had ladies at Wanless before.” An admission which staggered Minnie. Her “Oh, yes, Miss Percival,” and “Oh, no, Miss Percival,” were appreciative and good to hear. She was butler, we find, as well as housekeeper, for as she stood there, meditating the table, Ingram came in, in a hurry, with ideas about wine. He gave them out in jerks, without looking at her. Sherry, of course, a hock, Lafite. No champagne: it's beastly unless you are tired. Oh, and old brandy--the very old. Nothing of the sort to be had in India. The climate kills it. He stood very close to her as he spoke. When he remembered the brandy he put his hand on her shoulder, and finding it there, kept it so. Minnie presently went out of the room upon affairs; and then he looked into her face and said in a new tone, “How are you, Sancie?” He let his hand slide down, encircled her waist lightly with his arm. She gave him her grey eyes and a slow, patient smile. “I am quite well,” she said. “Are you?” Ingram, watching her still, seemed disconcerted, as if he wanted to say or do more, but couldn't, for some reason. What he did was to remove his hand quickly and thrust it into his trouser pocket. It might have been suddenly stung, judging from his way of whipping it away. “Oh, I'm all right, of course. I must go and dress, I suppose.” A year is a long time for an absence. In the doorway he stopped and looked back, a last look. “Supper in my room, you know. We'll talk.” She held to her mysteries, and he went.