Sanchia saw them. The sun gleamed upon fawn and white, and made black shine like jet. Deep in the thickets they heard the bell of one, cropping musically.
Senhouse led them to his verandah, which was shadowed from the heat, made them sit on mats, and served them with milk and bread in wooden bowls and trenchers. He was barefooted, which Sanchia, must by all means be—for the day: divining her, as he only could, he knelt without invitation and untied her shoes. “Stockings too, I'll bet you!” was what Chevenix thought; but he was wrong. Senhouse went into his cabin, and returned with sandals. Sanchia had taken off her own stockings. They were sandals to fit her. “I made them for Mary,” he explained; “but she preferred boots.”
“Most of 'em do,” Chevenix said, “in their hearts,” and Senhouse quietly rejoined, “So I've found out.”
Chevenix, the tactful, withdrew himself after a civil interval. He said that he should go goat-stalking, and, instead, went for a ramble, well out of sight. Then he found a place after his mind, smoked his pipe, and had a nap.
The pair, left to themselves, resumed with hardly an effort their ancient footing.
He said, after looking long upon her, “You are changed, Queen Mab; you are graver and quieter—but you are yourself, I see.”
“I am not changed really,” she said. “I love all the things I did. But sometimes one doesn't know it.”
He did not appear to heed her, occupied in his gentle scanning of her. “You are, I suppose, more beautiful than you were—I was prepared for that. You have been very much with me of late.”
Her excitement grew suddenly quick. “Have I? It's very odd, but—”
“It's not at all odd,” he said. “Nothing is. I will tell you what happens. After I go to bed—which is always lateish—I feel you come down the slope. I am not surprised—I wasn't the first time. You come in a blue gown, with bare feet. I can't see anything of you as you come but gleaming ivory—an oval, which is your face—two bars for your arms—two shafts,—and your feet. Your hair is loose all about your shoulders, and close about your face. It makes the oval longer and narrower than I see it now; your face is fuller by day than by night. You come to me out here, where I wait for you, and hold out your hand. I rise, and take it—and off we go. I realise now that I am in the conduct of a fairy. I was inspired when I hailed you—how long ago?—as Queen Mab. You show me wonderful things. Do you know that you come?”