“No, I don't think so. I wasn't more abrupt than he was--after a year.” She paused. “He threw out her death--Mrs. Ingram's death--” she forced herself to the name--“quite casually, as if he had been saying, 'By-the-by, the Rector's coming to dine.' If he had wanted me, do you think he would have put it like that?” “Nevile,” said Chevenix, “would put anything--like anything. He's that sort, you know. He'd take for granted that you understood lots of things which he couldn't express. But I will say this for Nevile. He's not petty. He's fairly large-minded. For instance, I'll bet you what you like he didn't mind your not writing to him--or reproach you with it.” She opened her eyes. “Of course he didn't. He was perfectly happy. He told me he had been idiotically happy. He knew I was here, because I forwarded his letters--and that was all he cared about. I was here for--when he chose. I assure you he didn't want me at all until I showed him that he couldn't have me.” “But he did, you know,” said Chevenix; “he does. He was sure of you all through, from the beginning, as you say. That's why he didn't write or expect letters from you. He nattered himself that he was secure. Poor old Nevile!” He felt sorry now for Ingram. She was really adamantine. She arose, with matches in her hand, knelt before the fire and kindled it. She blew into it with her mouth, and watched the climbing flames. “I don't think you need pity Nevile, really,” she said. “He will always be happy. But I am going to be made unhappy.” She proclaimed her fate as a fact in which she had no concern at all. Chevenix rose and paced the room. “Well, you know--I must be allowed to say--your happiness is so entirely in your own hands. It's difficult--I've no right to suggest--to interfere in any way. I'm nothing at all, of course--” “You are my friend, I hope,” she said, watching the young fire--still on her knees before it, worshipping it, as it seemed. Chevenix expanded his chest. “You make me very proud. I thank you for that. Yes, I am your friend. That's why I risk your friendship by asking you something. You won't answer me unless you choose, of course. But--come now, Sancie, is there, might there be--somebody else?” She looked round at him from where she knelt. Her hands were opened to the fire; her face was warmed by its glow; it was the pure face of a seraph. “No. There's nobody at all--now.” He was again standing before the little photograph of the nymph thigh-deep in water. That seemed to attract him; but he heard her “now,” and started. “I take your word for it, absolutely. But, seeing what you felt for Nevile in the beginning, I should have thought--in any ordinary case--there must have been a tender spot--unless, of course, you had changed your mind--for reasons--” She got up from her knees, and stood, leaning by the mantelpiece. Her low voice stirred him strangely. “There are reasons. The spot, as you call it, is so tender that it's raw.”