“Bravo! You're a true friend. O woman, in our hours of ease...! Trust me for an apposite quotation ... and new, what? I believe I'm pretty good at quotations. My people used to play a game. You write down a name on a bit of paper; then you fold it down; then a quotation; then another name. That's my vein of gold. Now you have it--the secret's out. I'm coming, you know. I accept. Many thanks. What's your hour?” “Half-past four,” she told him. He bowed, and left her with Glyde. He turned to look at them as he left the walled garden, and saw them near together,--Glyde vehement in his still way of undertones, she listening as she worked. At half-past four she received him in her room. Though her blouse was of lace and her skirt of green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the Athenian procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung to her like weed as she swam. As he met her friendly, silent welcome, he expressed her to himself--“By the gods above, you are--without exception--the healthiest--finest--bravest--young woman--that ever made the sun shine in grey weather.” Aloud, he made things easy. “Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its best, eager for the fray. When I think of old Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has tea and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've got a friend at court--to save me, don't you know, from the wicked man. When the wicked man--what? You know the quotation, I expect. Not one of my best--but give me time.” While she made tea he pried about her room, looking at photographs. He paused here and there as one struck him, and commented aloud. “Old Nevile, with his sour mouth. Looks as if the tongs had nipped him in the act. Why _will_ he roll his moustache like that? It's not pretty--shows him like a boar, with his tusks out, don't you think? But he's a good-looking beggar, and knows it. Ah! and there you all are--or, rather, were--all five of you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, you. What a bevy! I say--” He turned to her. “I met old Vicky, for a minute, the other day. Met her in Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or something, down at Aldershot. Expensive complaint, seemingly. So she'd come up to see a palmist, or some kind of an expert about him. She spoke of you, of her own accord. I said I was coming down here.” Sanchia's hand at the kettle was steady, but her eyes flickered before they took the veil. “Tell me about Vicky. What did she say--of me?” Chevenix came to the tea-table and stood by her. “I think Vicky's all right. I do indeed. It seems to me she'd give her ears to see you--simple ears. Sinclair, you'll find, is the trouble. He's the usual airy kind of ass. Makes laws for his womankind, and has 'em kept. Vicky likes it, too.”