Mrs. Wilmot has a maid
somewhere."
It was a quasi-introduction, awkwardly done. Sanchia gravely bowed, and
all might have been well had not her gentle smile persisted. The baffling
quality of this, the archaic enigma of it, made Mrs. Wilmot stare at her
helpless with brimming blue eyes. It made Mrs. Devereux shiver. It was
she, however, who accepted the inclination of the head. "Good evening to
you," she said. The housekeeper! This--person! The pair of them followed
her upstairs, Mrs. Devereux marching before, like one of the old _regime_
to the guillotine, Mrs. Wilmot trailing in her wake.
Young Chevenix, when they had disappeared, returned with a grin to his
_Bradshaw_. "No change from Sanchia," he said; and "Let's see: _Birmingham
depart_ 4.45. By Gad, that's a good train. No," he resumed; "no change out
of Sancie. How long is it since you were here, Nevile?"
Ingram was staring blankly out of window. "I think a year. I don't know.
You went out with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, and so's
this--just. So you can work it out. D'you want me to fix you up? You're in
the east wing, you know--I expect you are, anyhow. Where you were before."
"Right," said Chevenix; "right.
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