“See me again,” cried Chevenix, “as soon as you please; but not here—unless you feel you can make up your mind to settle down, as we call it.”
She shook her head. “I don't think I can. I think it might be wicked—as things are.”
Chevenix raised his eyebrows. “That's you all over, my dear. Other people's Right is your Wrong. Why question the decrees of the police? They tell you that you may do what you please when you're married, but not before. But you won't have that. Of course, if you can't swallow Nevile, you can't—and there's an end of it. Only,” he added, “there must be an end of it. You're in a false position—now.”
“According to you I always was,” said the candid young lady, and made him change countenance. She shirked nothing.
“I did think so once; we all did, you know. Even your bare-footed friend, What's-his-name—”
“Mr. Senhouse.”
“Beg your pardon. Mr. Senhouse, of course. Well, he didn't take it sitting down, so to speak. Did he now?”
She considered. Her eyes grew gentle over the remembrances which this name always called up. “He knew that I was right. Oh, yes. I'm sure of that. But he was frightened. He lost his nerve because—”
“Because it was you, my dear,” said Chevenix briskly. She owned soberly to that.
“I shall see your people when I get to town,” he told her. “I shall make a point of seeing Vicky and your governor. And if I could drop in upon Senhouse, by George, I'd risk it. You don't know where he is just now, I suppose?”