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."
Chevenix blinked. "I know what you mean. If it hadn't been for you and
your confounded theories, you imply that she--"
"I don't know--" Senhouse began. "God only knows what she might have done.
She was not of our sort, you know. I always said that she was unhuman."
"That's the last thing she was," said Chevenix, neatly. Senhouse scorned
him.
"You don't know anything about it," he said. "What are the doings of this
silly world, of our makeshift appearances, to the essentials? Antics--
filling up time! You speak as if she gave Ingram everything, and lost it.
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