“Really!” said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity.
“I remember,” he went on, “the first time we went fishing. I was at Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to moon about on the sands, while she read the Morning Post, with spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em. Her party was there, you know—five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls—eh, Sancie? I would have given my hopes of heaven—if I'd had any, you know—to go and paddle with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear—jolly old plump papa, rosy mamma—and Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as apples; and then Vicky and you—little dears, you were. I was like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin.” He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw tears. “It was you who took me in, you know.”
“No,” said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. “It was Vicky. She asked you to come fishing.” He accepting her ruling.
“Bless me, it was Vicky. Always a frisky one. But after that it was always you and Vicky and me. And we had the time of our lives—at least, I did.” Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from the beam with which Sanchia rewarded him—a tender, compassionate look, as if she understood and excused him.
“You are old friends, I see,” she said; and her smile was not unfriendly.
Chevenix shook his head wisely. “Frightfully old—I've known 'em all—all my life.” Mrs. Devereux then made a distinct advance.
“It must be very nice for you,” she said to Sanchia.
Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile absolutely general. “To see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, indeed.” She collected herself. “But I'm afraid I must go now. I've a great deal to do.” She admonished the young man. “Now you had better catch some more,” she told him. “I must go.”
His face fell—without any regard for Mrs. Devereux—to “Oh, I say!” but it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play. “Right, Sancie—you're mistress here. See you later.” He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs. Devereux sat deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself.
“You said just now,” the lady began, “to Miss Percival, that she was mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?”