“According to you I always was,” said the candid young lady, and made him change countenance. She shirked nothing. “I did think so once; we all did, you know. Even your bare-footed friend, What's-his-name--” “Mr. Senhouse.” “Beg your pardon. Mr. Senhouse, of course. Well, he didn't take it sitting down, so to speak. Did he now?” She considered. Her eyes grew gentle over the remembrances which this name always called up. “He knew that I was right. Oh, yes. I'm sure of that. But he was frightened. He lost his nerve because--” “Because it was you, my dear,” said Chevenix briskly. She owned soberly to that. “I shall see your people when I get to town,” he told her. “I shall make a point of seeing Vicky and your governor. And if I could drop in upon Senhouse, by George, I'd risk it. You don't know where he is just now, I suppose?” “He was in the Black Forest when I last heard from him,” she said, “and was going to the Caucasus--to collect plants. That was a long time ago. Three years, I should think. He doesn't write now. He's married, you know.” “Married?” he repeated, with open eyes. “I never knew that.” “He married a Mrs. Germain--a widow.” Chevenix stared, then slapped his leg. “Then that accounts for it! Didn't I tell you I met him when I went out to Brindisi to see Nevile off--met him on a steamer, with a pretty woman? That was Mrs. G.--_his_ pretty woman. Good Lord, how rum!” He laughed, staring. Then, “What on earth did he do that for? She's not his sort. And I gave myself away--confoundedly--to each of 'em in turn. You'll never believe it, but I told _him_ that she'd always been in love with Tristram Duplessis, and then I gave _her_ to understand what had been the matter with old Senhouse.” He exploded, then grew mighty serious. “That's rather a bore. I was counting on him, you know. I thought you might want him.” Sanchia made no reply. About the corners of her mouth there lurked the hint of a smile, which her wistful eyes belied. Chevenix watched her, but could make nothing of it.