Chevenix shrugged. “There's going to be trouble,” he believed. “There's bound to be, just on that account. Nevile can be a brute when he's in the wrong, and knows it.”
Sanchia squared her jaw for trouble.
“He wants you back, you know, awfully—because you won't come. And the more he wants you the less he'll say so. That's the pride of the cobbler's dog. If he's uncomfortable, he'll scratch until he's comfortable again. And he says, 'If you can't get the best take the next best'; and runs about with Mrs. Wilmot at his heels, and is bored all the time. That's Nevile all over.” His eyes grew rounder. “You'll have to go, you know.”
She admitted that. “Yes, I must.” Then she sighed. “I don't want to go. There's such a lot to be done here.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” said Chevenix with some irritation. “No doubt there is. But you can't afford it.”
He stammered out his next. “I should like to say, Sancie, that there's nobody on earth I respect—for whom I have more respect than for you. I don't understand your point of view—don't pretend to. But I know a fine thing when I see it. I'm not much of a chap, I know—no brains, and all that—simple, rotten chap, I know; but if we're not going to be friends I shall be unhappy.”
“We are, I hope,” she said, smiling kindly at him. She gave him her hand.
“Right, Sancie. Look here,” he said sternly. “I'll punch Nevile's head for you, if you like.”
“I shouldn't like it at all,” she assured him.
“We're old acquaintance, you know. He'd take it from me better than from anyone else—like Senhouse.”