Mrs. Devereux had been ignored, but was not displeased. It showed, at least, that Ingram knew she was not to be disposed of like a white rabbit. It was, however, necessary to say something, to declare one's presence, as it were; so she collected her papers. “I have letters to write. You will excuse me, I know.” Chevenix sprang to the door. “By George, I should think so,” he said, which was well intended, but too brisk. He bowed her out, shut her out, and stood with his eyes on the others. Ingram remained before the fire looking out of window. “She's in a wax. I don't know why.” “Oh, don't you, my boy?” said Chevenix to himself. Mrs. Wilmot trifled with her tea-spoon. “And I don't care--much,” he added. Mrs. Wilmot smiled. Mr. Chevenix, going a-fishing, saw, as he had intended to see, Sanchia in the rose-garden, talking to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers. “Morning, Sanchia--morning, Glyde!” Each greeted him, but the youth grimly. He talked at large. “I'm for murder. I must flesh my steel. It's too good a day to lose. Clouds scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must die. That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can hope to get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde doing to his roses at this time of year?” The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, aproned and shirt-sleeved, turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant, even to her. “It doesn't matter,” he had once told her, “what you say or do. I love you, and that's the sum and end of it.” Now he allowed her to answer for him. “There was a wind in the night which tore them about. I asked him to make them safe. I hate to think of their bruised ribs.”