Struan Glyde, silent and intent, worked abreast of
her. He had just muttered something or another which had given her pause.
She had her chin on her hands, her hands on her hoe, while she considered
her reply. Then Chevenix heard her slow, "Yes, I suppose so. I don't like
it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. We are poor creatures, made to be
underneath."
The cheerful youth rubbed his head. "Candid--what? Where _have_ we got to
now?"
Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was stopping still, his blade in
the ground, but he turned his face sideways to answer her. "Not so," he
said, "unless you will have it so. She is queen of the world who is queen
of herself." Then Sanchia saw Chevenix, and waited for him.
"Philosophy--what?" the cheerful youth hailed them. "Plain living, hard
thinking, what? Upon my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can
expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preaching? Heresy? Schism? Sudden
death?"
"He was talking about women," Sanchia told him.
"Ah," the youth mused aloud. "He was, was he? Glyde on Woman. He ought to
wait for his beard to grow; then you might listen to him."
Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking into the clods, while
Chevenix, to whom he was negligible, pursued his own affair.
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