Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and all things else. “I see. Works of mercy. There's a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen. All to the good, you know, Clyde. You never know your luck, they tell me.” He left Clyde and his roses, and turned to the young lady. “Well now, look here, Sancie--if works of mercy are toward, what d'you say to one on your own account? Here I stand, an orphan boy, upon my honour. The master's gone riding with the widow.” He stopped his rattle, as a thought struck him serious for a moment. “By George, and he's a widower--so he is!” Discharged of that, he resumed--“Yes, and Mrs. Devereux has got the hump, as they say--and here I am at your mercy, to be made much of. Who's going to admire me? Who's going to hold my net? Who's going to say, 'Oh, what a beauty!'” He had now got her thoroughly at her old ease with him. Her eyes gleamed, and there was no doubting her smile. “Now, I'll tell you what. Your roses are all right. Glyde will see to that. You leave that to Glyde and his strong right arm. His strength is as the strength of ten, because... you follow me, I think? Now, Sancie, I put it to you--I'm an old friend of the family, and haven't seen you for--how many years? Aren't you going to give me half-an-hour of your morning?” He pleaded by looks. He was quizzical, but in earnest. Her brow was clear. “Yes,” she said. “I'll come--for half-an-hour.” “Right! Right, goddess of the silver brake. Come, hold the pass with me.” He turned to go, and she caught him up. “I mix my poets like salad, but that's because I'm in such high spirits. By Jove, Sancie, it _is_ good to see you again.” She met his laughing eyes with hers. She swam by his side--took his net, and was happy. Her face glowed. She had the power of casting troubles behind, recuperative power, resiliency. Glyde, the olive-faced, watched them down the walk, and owned to a heart of lead. “As well shut down the west wind as a spirit like hers!” He turned to his affair. Below the steps, in the nut-walk which led to the bridge, Chevenix altered his tone. “It's good of you to come with me, Sancie, my dear. I'm a very friendly beggar, and Nevile, you know--I say!” and he turned her a sober face--“You know, I suppose? His wife--eh? Dead, you know. Oh, but of course you did!” She met him unfalteringly. “Yes, he told me.” Chevenix shrugged. “I must say, you know--what? Oh, of course, it was a ghastly affair all along. But _you_ know all that, as well as I do. Why, her temper! Oh, awful! I've seen her myself dead-white in one of her rages--she had hold of a wine-glass so hard that it snapped, and cut her hand. She looked at the blood--she didn't know how it happened. And he--well, _you_ ought to know--was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul, Sancie, Vesuvius might just as well have married Etna--every bit. But there! What's the good of talking! Everybody knew how it would be.” Words failing him, he stared about him.