“You have to be,” said Chevenix with sudden energy. He wheeled round upon her as he spoke. “We all have to be. We go by clockwork. You get the striking all wrong if you play tricks.” He resumed the photograph. “By Jove, but that suits you. Child of Nature, what? I suppose you're happiest when you're larking?” “Mud-larking?” she asked him, laughing and blushing. “Well, we'll say rampageing; going as you please.” “Yes.” She owned to it without hesitation. “I can't be happy, I think, unless I can do just what I like everywhere. It was one of the first things Jack Senhouse ever taught me. He was an anarchist, you know--and I suppose I'm one, too.” “Your gypsy friend?” He jerked his head backwards to the photograph. “By Jove, my dear,” he added, “you must have knocked him sideways--even him--when you carried out his little ideas--as you did.” She opened her eyes to a stare. She stared, rather ruefully. “Yes,” she said, “I believe I did. I know I did. He was dreadfully unhappy. He and I were never quite the same after that. But I couldn't help myself. It was before me--it had to be done.” “No, no, no!” cried he vehemently, but checked himself. “Pardon, Sancie. We won't go over all that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do. Now that escapade in the pond, you know. That was all right--with only old Senhouse in the way. You must admit that you were rather _decolletee_, to say the least of it. Now, would you say that you can do those sort of things--go as you please, you know, anywhere?” “Why not?” Her eyes were straightly at him. “What! Whether you're seen or not?” She frowned. “I don't want to know whether I'm seen or not.” “And mostly you don't care?” “And sometimes I don't care.” “Ah,” said Chevenix, “there you are. Your 'sometimes' gives you away.” She changed the subject. “Do have some tea. It will be quite cold.” He had been staring again at the photograph--Sanchia's gleaming limbs, the gypsy's intent face shadowed over the water. He now relinquished it with an effort. “Thanks,” he said. “I like it cold.” He sat beside her, and they talked casually, like old, fast friends, of mutual acquaintance. But for him the air was charged; she was on his conscience. Reminiscences paled and talk died down; he found himself staring at the wall. He resumed the great affair. “Nevile's rather jumpy, don't you think?” Her serenity was proof. “Is he? Why should he be?” “Ah, my dear!” cried the poor young man. “Let's say it's the old Devereux. _Salmo deverox_, eh? Sounds fierce.” Not a flicker. “Mrs. Devereux? What has she been doing to him?” “Nothing,” he said; “and that's just it. She won't have anything to say to him.” Then she went a little too far. A man charged with friendly impulse, charged also with knowledge, must be handled tenderly. You must not be foolhardy. But here was bravado, nothing less. For she arched her brows, and showed her eyes innocently wide. “Oh!” she said, “why? Why won't Mrs. Devereux speak to Nevile?”