At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit--to certain Sowerbys of Sowerby, and pointedly asked Mrs. Devereux to come. “You like her, you know. It's beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll drive you over in the phaeton.” Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that he should fish. He hated calling--except on Mrs. Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning eyes of the lady, who had already caught him at his fishing. The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as he had hoped, in the garden. Her gauntlets were on, an apron covered her; she was flushed with the exercise of the hoe. Struan Glyde, silent and intent, worked abreast of her. He had just muttered something or another which had given her pause. She had her chin on her hands, her hands on her hoe, while she considered her reply. Then Chevenix heard her slow, “Yes, I suppose so. I don't like it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. We are poor creatures, made to be underneath.” The cheerful youth rubbed his head. “Candid--what? Where _have_ we got to now?” Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was stopping still, his blade in the ground, but he turned his face sideways to answer her. “Not so,” he said, “unless you will have it so. She is queen of the world who is queen of herself.” Then Sanchia saw Chevenix, and waited for him. “Philosophy--what?” the cheerful youth hailed them. “Plain living, hard thinking, what? Upon my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preaching? Heresy? Schism? Sudden death?” “He was talking about women,” Sanchia told him. “Ah,” the youth mused aloud. “He was, was he? Glyde on Woman. He ought to wait for his beard to grow; then you might listen to him.” Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking into the clods, while Chevenix, to whom he was negligible, pursued his own affair. “I say, Sancie, I'm going to ask a favour of you--not the first, by any means; but I always was a sturdy beggar. The Lord loveth a sturdy beggar, eh? Well, look here, I'm at a loose end again. Nevile's taken 'em out driving--to a tea-party--to the Sowerbys. I jibbed, though I was asked. I lied, because they drove me into a corner. I couldn't face old Sowerby's chin--and all those gels with their embroidered curates--what? You know what I mean. I mean their church-work, and the curates they do it for. So I said I was going fishing--which was a lie--and Mrs. Devereux as good as said it was a lie. Now, suppose you invite me to tea; how would that be?” “Then you _do_ go fishing,” said Sanchia, and smiled. “Very well. I do invite you.”