Ingram, when they were alone, threw himself back in his chair, crossed one leg, and clasped the thin ankle of it. He had finely-made, narrow feet, and was proud of his ankles. Sanchia was now again kneeling before the fire.
“Quite right to have a fire,” he said. “It's falling in cold. There'll be a frost. What was Chevenix saying about me?”
She had been prepared. “Nothing but good. He's your friend, as you said.”
“I said 'our friend,' my dear.”
She looked at him. “Yes, certainly. He's my friend, too.”
“I hope he'll prove so. Upon my soul, I do.” He remained silent for a time. Then he leaned forward suddenly, and held out his arms.
“Oh, Sancie,” he said, his voice trembling. “Love me.”
She looked at him with wide, searching, earnest eyes. They seemed to search, not him, but her own soul. They explored the void, seeking for a sign, a vestige, a wreck; but found nothing.
“I can't,” she said. Her voice was frayed. “The thing is quite dead.”
Ingram flushed deeply, but sat on, biting his lip, frowning, staring at the young, mounting fire, which she, stooping over it, cherished with her breath and quick hands.