She jumped up and hugged him. “You darling old thing, of course not.” But she kept her face buried in his whiskers. “If I ever did that—give up my mind, I mean—I believe I should be happier.”
Mr. Percival had no doubt about that. He had old-fashioned opinions.
IV
Mrs. John Chevenix, a young and lively woman with ash-coloured hair, audacious nose, and a clear complexion, was devoted to her husband's family, and especially tender to our young friend and Sanchia's, with whom she had a strong alliance. Her husband had a sense of humour, which he indulged for the most part in silence. He spoke rarely, swallowed his laughter, and yet was good company. You felt his sympathy, found yourself depending on it. You gauged his relish by a twinkle, by a deeper shade of purple in his cheeks, by a twitching ear. The Stock Exchange gave him a sufficiency, and his wife, with her taste for dinner-parties, saw to it that it gave him no more. “Let's bleed old John,” was Bill Chevenix's pleasant way of suggesting an escapade which might run into hundreds. “It will do him good,” Mrs. John used to agree; and John Chevenix would chuckle internally, and say, “Go it, you two.” On these terms they were all very happy.
Bill Chevenix had told his sister-in-law as much about Sanchia as he thought fitting. To begin with, he took all responsibility upon himself for the opening scene of her wild adventure. He had introduced “the chap” into the Percival household, and it was he, too, who had not introduced the fact of his unhappy marriage. “Took it all for granted—thought they knew it—forgot they didn't belong to that gang—your gang, my gang, Nevile's gang. Rotten of me, my dear, but there you are.” Mrs. John understood him to feel more contrite than he appeared. And next he lauded Sanchia, after his own manner. As thus: “A queer young fish. You can't judge her by the rules of the game. She shows her strength by breaking 'em. She'd break anything and anybody. Oh, she's as deep as the Dogger. But mighty pleasant with it, you know, Fine, quiet style of her own. And a beauty. My word, but she's like a rose.” Then his eyes met hers confidentially. A wink passed. “No. We're great friends. That's all there is to it, on my honour. But you can't leave a girl like that stranded, can you now? Especially when you've run her aground yourself—in a way. So I thought of old Aunt Wenman in a minute. In fact, I've seen her about it, and, by George, she hit on a phrase in a trice. 'Unfortunate attachment.' She's perfectly happy with that, and rather keen. Now all you have to do is to give a party, and I'll ask Sancie.”
Mrs. John thought that was too casual. “You mustn't treat her like a dancing man,” she told him. “I shall call on her, and you can tell her I'm coming. We'll do the thing in form.”
All this had been done, and the call returned. Sanchia's still serenity, seen through the rosy mist of her momentary confusion, pleased Mrs. John. The invitation was made and accepted in parting.
“Do come. We shan't have many people, you know; but I won't let you be dull. And Bill will be there, of course—and you rather like Bill—and a queer old Aunt of ours who knows everybody. So I hope you won't mind.”