“Splendid!” breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight. Chevenix gloried in her beauty. “If Nevile don't know what his chances are--if he ain't on his knees--my heavens, what a mate for a chap!” A shadow falling upon him caused him to look up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and tall, boa'd, gloved, umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion from the bank. Instinct prompted him immediately to screen Sanchia by dragging her into the party. He held up the net and plunged. “First prize,” he cried out, as heartfully as he could, “to me and Miss Percival.” “So I see,” said Mrs. Devereux. “Ah, good morning.” This was to Sanchia's bland greeting, which, as always, made the lady shiver. It is difficult to say what a shock it was to her to be greeted cheerfully by Sanchia. To see one in so painful a situation occupied by anything less painful, interested in anything at all, was truly shocking. Mrs. Devereux's idea of irregularity was that it absorbed the devoted victim, kept her aghast. If it did not, surely, there was no reward left to the virtuous. But here we had a highly irregular young woman behaving with extreme regularity. Was the world turning upside down? Was black, then, really white? She shivered, she blinked her eyes; but she descended the bank and stood beside the pair, yet rigidly apart. Chevenix, having got her there, knew not what to do with her. It seemed to him that he had better, on the whole, go on, so turned the lady a knowing face. “This is not the first time by any means that Miss Percival and I have gone fishing, you must know. We began by tickling 'em--we were urchins together, you see.” “Really!” said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity. “I remember,” he went on, “the first time we went fishing. I was at Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to moon about on the sands, while she read the _Morning Post_, with spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em. _Her_ party was there, you know--five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls--eh, Sancie? I would have given my hopes of heaven--if I'd had any, you know--to go and paddle with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear--jolly old plump papa, rosy mamma--and Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as apples; and then Vicky and you--little dears, you were. I was like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin.” He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw tears. “It was _you_ who took me in, you know.” “No,” said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. “It was Vicky. She asked you to come fishing.” He accepting her ruling.