A butler would have had it. Meantime, Mrs. Wilmot, a hand to
each cavalier, was descending from the omnibus. She was a pretty, bedraped
lady, with wide blue Greuze eyes, and soft lips, always wet and mostly
apart. She murmured, "How kind you are to me," and liked it from Ingram to
Chevenix. Ingram said nothing, but Chevenix dropped down his brisk "By
Jove, Mrs. Wilmot, that's nothing to what I _could_ do for you--nothing at
all." And then they turned to the house.
When Miss Percival, looking frailer than she really was because of her
black gown, fairer, that is, and paler, entered the hall, she found the
party at a loose end. Mr. Chevenix was in a deep chair, turning over
_Bradshaw_, and whistling softly to himself. Ingram, hands in pockets, was
deprecating the portraits of his ancestors to the two ladies, who were not
at all interested in them. He appeared to be considerably bored by his
guests, and they to be aware of it. Miss Percival's arrival was timely, if
only because she effectively chased out _ennui_. Chevenix, as if he had
been waiting for her, jumped up and went to meet her. He shook hands.
"Hulloa, Sancie!" he was heard distinctly to say. "By Jove, I'm glad to
see you again.
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