Mr. Nevile Ingram who, at thirty, had still the air of a brisk young man and was owner by inheritance of this place, arrived with his guests by the 7.4 train from London. The omnibus brought the four of them, with a maid sitting on the box beside Frodsham, and a bank of luggage behind her head. No parrots, no dogs; but a Mr. Chevenix brought his fishing-rods. Besides this Mr. Chevenix, who had been here before, there was an elderly Mrs. Devereux, white-haired and short-sighted, who used, whenever she could find them, a pair of long-handled glasses, and a young Mrs. Wilmot, pretty, very fair, rather helpless. It was her maid who shared the box-seat with Frodsham.
The absence of a footman at the station had been noted by Mrs. Devereux, the absence of any man-servant at the house struck her as remarkable. There was none, and had been none since Miss Percival assumed command; but at this time Mrs. Devereux knew nothing of Miss Percival. Nevile Ingram, banging the door open with his knee, jumped out first, and stood to help the ladies; the next to emerge was Mr. Chevenix who, the moment he touched earth, said “Right!” and looked as if he had sparkled. It was clear that he had abundant health and was satisfied with all the arrangements of Providence. He surveyed the house, the awaiting virgins at the door, wished them both good evening, nosed the upper air, snuffed the gale, said “Good old Wanless—my precious rods!” and dived for them before the ladies could descend. Thereafter a timidly poising foot and some robust breadth of stocking revealed the anxieties of Mrs. Devereux. On alighting she shook herself like a hen, and her draperies rustled to their length. She found her lorgnettes and surveyed (so to speak) the absent men-servants with blank misgivings. A maid advanced for her jewel-case, but Mrs. Devereux, shutting her eyes, said “Thanks, I carry it,” and pressed it to her bosom. A butler would have had it. Meantime, Mrs. Wilmot, a hand to each cavalier, was descending from the omnibus. She was a pretty, bedraped lady, with wide blue Greuze eyes, and soft lips, always wet and mostly apart. She murmured, “How kind you are to me,” and liked it from Ingram to Chevenix. Ingram said nothing, but Chevenix dropped down his brisk “By Jove, Mrs. Wilmot, that's nothing to what I could do for you—nothing at all.” And then they turned to the house.
When Miss Percival, looking frailer than she really was because of her black gown, fairer, that is, and paler, entered the hall, she found the party at a loose end. Mr. Chevenix was in a deep chair, turning over Bradshaw, and whistling softly to himself. Ingram, hands in pockets, was deprecating the portraits of his ancestors to the two ladies, who were not at all interested in them. He appeared to be considerably bored by his guests, and they to be aware of it. Miss Percival's arrival was timely, if only because she effectively chased out ennui. Chevenix, as if he had been waiting for her, jumped up and went to meet her. He shook hands. “Hulloa, Sancie!” he was heard distinctly to say. “By Jove, I'm glad to see you again.” The latter sentence was not quite audible, but sufficiently so to send Mrs. Devereux' lorgnettes up to her nose. Sanchia herself, receiving civilities as if born to them, impelled her to keep them there. She had appeared silently and suddenly out of the blue. And now she hovered, smiling, fair, and unconcerned, like a goddess out of a chariot come to deal judgment, and listened charitably to Mr. Chevenix. How odd! How more than odd! Mrs. Wilmot looked as if her eyes were full of tears, but let nothing escape her. As for Ingram, he greeted the apparition with a smile and a nod sideways. But Mrs. Devereux could have sworn to a scare in the eye. “How are you, Sanchia?” he said, and then to his guests, “Miss Percival will show you where you all are, if you'll—Dinner's at half-past eight, I believe. At least, it always used to be; but I've been away for a year, and they may have changed all that. Have you, by the way?” he asked, with a sudden turn to Miss Percival.
She looked calmly at him. “No. It's still at half-past eight,” she said. He lit his cigarette.
“Will you show these ladies their rooms?” he required of her, adding as an afterthought, “Mrs. Devereux, Mrs. Wilmot. Mrs. Wilmot has a maid somewhere.”
It was a quasi-introduction, awkwardly done. Sanchia gravely bowed, and all might have been well had not her gentle smile persisted. The baffling quality of this, the archaic enigma of it, made Mrs. Wilmot stare at her helpless with brimming blue eyes. It made Mrs. Devereux shiver. It was she, however, who accepted the inclination of the head. “Good evening to you,” she said. The housekeeper! This—person! The pair of them followed her upstairs, Mrs. Devereux marching before, like one of the old regime to the guillotine, Mrs. Wilmot trailing in her wake.
Young Chevenix, when they had disappeared, returned with a grin to his Bradshaw. “No change from Sanchia,” he said; and “Let's see: Birmingham depart 4.45. By Gad, that's a good train. No,” he resumed; “no change out of Sancie. How long is it since you were here, Nevile?”
Ingram was staring blankly out of window. “I think a year. I don't know. You went out with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, and so's this—just. So you can work it out. D'you want me to fix you up? You're in the east wing, you know—I expect you are, anyhow. Where you were before.”
“Right,” said Chevenix; “right. Only we're none of us where we were before, my boy. Don't flatter yourself.” He shut Bradshaw with a bang, and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, “No change, no change from Sanchia,” which he turned into “Who is Sanchia? What is she, that all our swains...?”
{Illustration: The housekeeper! This—person!}