"
"Really!" said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity.
"I remember," he went on, "the first time we went fishing. I was at
Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to
moon about on the sands, while she read the _Morning Post_, with
spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other
young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em. _Her_ party was there, you know--
five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls--eh, Sancie? I would have
given my hopes of heaven--if I'd had any, you know--to go and paddle with
'em. Jolly party you were, my dear--jolly old plump papa, rosy mamma--and
Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as apples; and
then Vicky and you--little dears, you were. I was like a spent salmon, I
believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin." He
turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on her arm; she turned away
her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw tears. "It was _you_ who took
me in, you know."
"No," said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. "It was Vicky. She asked
you to come fishing." He accepting her ruling.
"Bless me, it _was_ Vicky. Always a frisky one.
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