Senhouse set a watch upon himself. “No doubt she is,” he said. “She's well?”
The other probed him. “She's never made it up with her people. I think she feels it nowadays.”
Senhouse asked sharply, “Where's Ingram?”
“Ingram,” said Chevenix, “is just off for a trip. He's to be abroad for a year. India.”
Senhouse shivered. “Alone?”
“Well, without her, anyhow. He always was a casual beggar, was Nevile.” He could see now that he was making a hit. “Got old Senhouse where he lives,” he told himself, and then continued. “Fact is, I've been out with him as far as Brindisi. He asked me to. I had nothing to do. But I want to see Sancie Percival again. I was awfully fond of her—of the whole lot of them.” He reflected, as a man might deliberate upon familiar things, and discover them to be wonders. “What a family they were, by Jove! Five—of—the—loveliest girls a man could meet with. Melusine, what a girl she was! Married Tubby Scales—fat chap with a cigar. Vicky, now. How about Vicky? She was my chum, you know. She's married, too. Chap called Sinclair—in the Guides. But Sancie beat them all in her quiet way. A still water—what?”
Senhouse, his chin clasped in his bony hands, contemplated the sea. His face was drawn and stern. There was a queer twitching of the cheek-bones. “Got him, by Jove!” said Mr. Chevenix to himself, and pushed on. “I say, I wish you'd go and see her,” he said.
Senhouse got up and leaned over the bulwarks. He was plainly disturbed. Chevenix waited for him nervously, but got nothing.
Then he said, “The fact is, Senhouse, I think that you should go. You were the best friend she ever had.” Senhouse turned him then a tragic face.
“No, I wasn't,” he said. “I think I was the worst.”