“Bless me, it _was_ Vicky. Always a frisky one. But after that it was always you and Vicky and me. And we had the time of our lives--at least, I did.” Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from the beam with which Sanchia rewarded him--a tender, compassionate look, as if she understood and excused him. “You are old friends, I see,” she said; and her smile was not unfriendly. Chevenix shook his head wisely. “Frightfully old--I've known 'em all--all my life.” Mrs. Devereux then made a distinct advance. “It must be very nice for you,” she said to Sanchia. Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile absolutely general. “To see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, indeed.” She collected herself. “But I'm afraid I must go now. I've a great deal to do.” She admonished the young man. “Now you had better catch some more,” she told him. “I must go.” His face fell--without any regard for Mrs. Devereux--to “Oh, I say!” but it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play. “Right, Sancie--you're mistress here. See you later.” He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs. Devereux sat deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself. “You said just now,” the lady began, “to Miss Percival, that she was mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?” Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. “Oh, you know, Mrs. Devereux! you can't take a chap--literally--what?” He wanted time; but she gave him none. “You must forgive an old woman of the world--of a certain world. I come here--to a house which belonged to Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I find--installed--a young lady--who does not dine--who is extremely capable. I am bewildered, naturally.” Chevenix's “I know, I know,” and his friendly nods ran on as an accompaniment. “And then,” said she, raising her voice, “I find that this young lady--and you--are old friends. You speak of her--people--as if they were really--of the sort which--as if she were--of the kind--whom--” It was impossible. “Really,” she said, “it's most unusual. I don't frankly know what I ought to do.” Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated phrases, where what she did not say was the most eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely and sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opinion. “I know, I know,” he said. “It's very rum--you must naturally find it so. I know exactly how you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word for it. Or rummy. Yes, you might call it rummy--or a go, you know--or anything like that.” Then he grew plausible. “But I'm sure it's all right. It's a long story, but I'm quite sure. You've no idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I know it.” He tapped his forehead. “I saw the whole thing through--from beginning to end. She's a perfect beauty, to begin with.”