“I'm sure I shan't,” Sanchia said, and then they shook hands.
Bill Chevenix, who had been present, waved himself away from the doorstep. “By-by, my dear,” he said. “You've done bravely by me. Isn't she splendid?”
“I like her,” said Mrs. John. “But she's rather unapproachable.”
Bill chuckled. “That's her little way. She don't kiss easily.”
Mrs. John said that he ought to know.
The party was anything but dull. Lady Maria dined with seven other people, the best that could be mustered on short notice—and Sanchia came in at ten o'clock, when the drawing-room was full. She came with an elderly friend, a Mrs. Quantock, whose acquaintance she had made in an omnibus, and renewed at the British Museum. Mrs. Quantock was an authoress by profession, a poetess by temperament. Her emotions, not always under control, consorted oddly with her broad and placid face. She knew Lady Maria Wenman, and it was she who actually performed the introduction, Mrs. John being fast at her stair-head.
“I particularly want you to know my dear friend—Miss Sanchia Percival—Lady Maria Wenman. A great heart, Lady Maria, in a frame of steel.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Lady Maria. Then, “Come and sit with me, my dear; I've heard about you. But I hope you've left your steels at home.”
“If I had a trumpet,” said good Mrs. Quantock, “instead of a penny whistle, all the world should hear what I think of Sanchia.”
“Then it's a very good thing you haven't,” said Lady Maria. “The less young ladies are trumpeted in public the better!”