Ingram, at supper in his private room, had his elbows on the table, and spoke between his fists to Chevenix, let into these mysteries for the first time. “I ought not to complain, you'll say, and in my heart of hearts I don't, because I'm a reasonable man, and know that you don't make a row about sunstroke or lightning-shocks. We call 'em the Act of God, and rule 'em out in insurance offices. No, no, I see what I've let myself in for. I've been away too much; she's got sick of it. I shall have to work at it--to bring her round. By God, and she's worth it. She's a wonder.” “Pity,” said Chevenix, “you've only just found it out.” Ingram frowned, and waxing in rage, stared at his friend as if he had never known him. “You don't know what you're talking about. Why, she adored me. I was never more in love with a woman in my life than I was with Sancie.” Chevenix tilted back his chair. “Oh, you had it pretty badly--at the time. The trouble with you is that you are such a chap for accepting things. You're like a hall-porter in a Swiss hotel. You take things for granted. Do nothing--hold out your hand--and get your perks. Perks! Why, they ain't perks at all. They're bounty--what you get from a girl like Sancie.” All this Ingram took as his due--as due, that is, to a man of passion and reasonable desires. He fell into a reverie. “Yes, yes, I know. She was devilish fond of me.” Chevenix gritted his teeth, but Ingram went on. “It was a false position, I know, and I never ought to have looked at her twice. But she was awfully queer or awfully deep--one never knew which. Why, when we got thick together--always meeting out, always reading poetry and philosophy--Shelley, Dante, Keats (I forget half their names now)--I take my oath I hadn't a suspicion that she was getting to like me, in that sort of way, as we call it. She made all the difference in the world to me, I can tell you. You know what I was doing after Claire bolted with that swine: killing time and killing myself--that's what I was doing. It was like going into church out of the sun to hear her at her poetry, and see her. Oh, a lovely girl she was!” “She's a lovelier woman than you and I are fit to look at,” said Chevenix, “if you ask me.” “Damn you, I know all about that. D'you think I want telling, now that I can't get her? Well, then I found out what was the matter with me--and then we cleared the air.” “Who had stuffed it up to begin with?” Chevenix murmured; but Ingram ignored him. “I told her the whole thing--” “After she had found it out!” cried Chevenix with energy. “Let's have cards on the table. I told Vicky all about it at a dance--and Vicky told her.” “I told her,” Ingram said, “that I was in love with her, and promised to behave--and so I should have, only--” “Only you didn't, old chap.” “She loved me--there was no stopping it then. The thing was done. Mind you, her people knew it all, too.” “The mother always was a fool,” Chevenix agreed. “And she liked you.”