“Good Lord,” said Chevenix. “What do you mean?” She was full of her reasons, evidently. Rumours of them, so to say, drove over her eyes, showed cloudily and angrily there. Her beautiful mouth looked cruel--as if she saw death and took joy in it. “I think he is horrible,” she said. “I think he is like a beast. He doesn't love me at all until he comes here--and then he expects me--Oh, don't ask me to talk about it.” She stopped her tongue, but not her thought. That thronged the gates of her lips. She hesitated, fighting the entry; but the words came, shocked and dreadful. “He wants me, to ravage me--like a beast.” Chevenix began to stammer. “Oh, I say, you mustn't--Oh, don't talk like that--” The door opened, and Ingram came in. He looked from one to the other, sharply. “Hulloa,” he said. “What are you two about in here?” Sanchia looked at the fire, and put her foot close to it, to be warmed. “Tea-party,” said Chevenix. “That's it, Nevile.” He nodded sagely at his host, and saw his brow clear. Ingram shut the door and came into the room, to a chair. “That's all right,” he said. “I hope it was a livelier one than mine. That old Devereux was on her high-stepper. I'm sick of being trampled. I thought, though, that you had been having words. You looked like it.” Sanchia said, smiling in her queer way, “Oh, dear no. Mr. Chevenix is much too kind for that. He's been talking very nicely to me. He's been charming.” “Oh, come, Sancie--” cried the brisk young man, quite recovered. Ingram, in a stare, said, “Yes, Sancie, you may trust him. He's a friend of ours.” “I do trust him,” she said. Chevenix said, “I shall go out on that. I declare my innings. Good-bye, you two. I'll go and pacify the Devereux.” He hoped against hope that he might have warmed her. Ingram, when they were alone, threw himself back in his chair, crossed one leg, and clasped the thin ankle of it. He had finely-made, narrow feet, and was proud of his ankles. Sanchia was now again kneeling before the fire. “Quite right to have a fire,” he said. “It's falling in cold. There'll be a frost. What was Chevenix saying about me?” She had been prepared. “Nothing but good. He's your friend, as you said.” “I said 'our friend,' my dear.” She looked at him. “Yes, certainly. He's my friend, too.” “I hope he'll prove so. Upon my soul, I do.” He remained silent for a time. Then he leaned forward suddenly, and held out his arms. “Oh, Sancie,” he said, his voice trembling. “Love me.” She looked at him with wide, searching, earnest eyes. They seemed to search, not him, but her own soul. They explored the void, seeking for a sign, a vestige, a wreck; but found nothing. “I can't,” she said. Her voice was frayed. “The thing is quite dead.” Ingram flushed deeply, but sat on, biting his lip, frowning, staring at the young, mounting fire, which she, stooping over it, cherished with her breath and quick hands. VII