“Had a good day, Sancie?” he asked, after a while of gazing.
“Very good,” she said.
“Saw your man?”
“Yes, I saw him.”
“Mad as ever?”
“Ah,” she said, “who is mad?”
“Well, my dear, if he is not, we are. That's certain. What have you done with Bill Chevenix?”
“He's gone home to dress. He will be here directly.”
“I hope,” said Ingram, “he played the perfect squire.” She stood by the window looking out towards the west. Luminous orange mist flared up behind the chimney-stacks in streamers. Above that, in a sky faintly blue, crimson clouds, like plumes of feather, floated without motion.
Ingram called her to him. “Sancie, come here a minute. I want you.” She turned her head and looked at him, then slowly crossed the room. She kept her eyes upon him, but did not seem to see him. They were haunted eyes. She came in front of him, and stood, questing his face, as if she was trying to see him within it.