Mrs. Wilmot smiled.
Mr. Chevenix, going a-fishing, saw, as he had intended to see, Sanchia in
the rose-garden, talking to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers.
"Morning, Sanchia--morning, Glyde!" Each greeted him, but the youth
grimly.
He talked at large. "I'm for murder. I must flesh my steel. It's too good
a day to lose. Clouds scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must die.
That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can hope to
get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde doing to
his roses at this time of year?"
The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, aproned and shirt-sleeved,
turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant,
even to her. "It doesn't matter," he had once told her, "what you say or
do. I love you, and that's the sum and end of it." Now he allowed her to
answer for him.
"There was a wind in the night which tore them about. I asked him to make
them safe. I hate to think of their bruised ribs."
Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and all things else. "I see.
Works of mercy. There's a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen. All to
the good, you know, Clyde. You never know your luck, they tell me.
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