“Oh, come, you know.” He looked at her keenly. He didn't wink, but he blinked. Then he crossed the room. “Look here, Sancie. Will you let me talk to you--really--as an old friend?” She looked up into his face, nodded and smiled. “Of course you may say what you like.” He sat by her, collecting himself. “Well, then, what I shall say is just this. The whole thing is in your hands--now. You can put it square. There's absolutely nothing in your way--now--well, now that Claire's gone, you know.” He watched her anxiously for a sign, but got none. So still she sat, glooming, watching herself--as on a scene. “Mind,” he said in a new tone. “You know all about me. I jibbed at first when you broke away. I'll own to that. I couldn't do otherwise. Why, old Senhouse himself went half off his head about it. Anything in the world to get you out of it, I'd have done. Any mortal thing, my dear. But there! There was no holding you--off you went! But when once the thing was started--the extraordinary thing was that I was on your side directly. And so I always have been. Ask Vicky--ask your mother. I've done, in my quiet way, what you would never have asked of me. You must forgive me--I've defended you everywhere. I won't mention names, but I've explained your case, only lately, in a rocky quarter--and I know I've made an impression. I'm not much good at talking, as a rule, but I do believe that I put the thing rather well. You make your own laws--eh? Like Napoleon Buonaparte--eh? And somehow--the way you do it--it's all right, eh, Sancie?” He got nothing from her. She sat on rigid, with unwinking eyes, staring at herself, as she saw herself on the scene. Chevenix leaned to her.