He had been
present as a guest, but had kept well in the background. There had been a
lot of drinking done--luckily he was all right. He had a good head, you
see; could carry a lot of stuff.
He had, by the way, "picked up" that little Mrs. Wilmot on board ship. She
was coming home in the convoy of Mrs. Devereux. Of course he had known
Mrs. Devereux for years; she was an institution. The little Wilmot person
was a widow, it seemed. Niceish sort of young woman; knew the Trenchards
up here, was a kind of cousin of Lady Trenchard's. In fact, she was going
on to them from here; but not due for a week or so. She had, you might
say, asked to be asked, or spelled for it out of those eyes of hers. You
get awfully friendly on board ship, you must know. You can say anything--
and do most things--oh, all sorts of things! He had no objection--to her
coming, he meant; indeed, he rather liked the young party. He thought
Chevenix did, too. But Chevenix was very much at Sanchia's disposal; "he
talked a lot about seeing you again, my girl." To meet him again might
carry her mind back--how long? Eight stricken years. Was it possible that
she--he and she--had been here together eight years? Yes, he could see
that she remembered.
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