He bowed, and left her with Glyde. He
turned to look at them as he left the walled garden, and saw them near
together,--Glyde vehement in his still way of undertones, she listening as
she worked.
At half-past four she received him in her room. Though her blouse was of
lace and her skirt of green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the
Athenian procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung to her like weed
as she swam. As he met her friendly, silent welcome, he expressed her to
himself--"By the gods above, you are--without exception--the healthiest--
finest--bravest--young woman--that ever made the sun shine in grey
weather." Aloud, he made things easy.
"Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its best, eager for the fray.
When I think of old Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has tea
and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've got a friend at court--to
save me, don't you know, from the wicked man. When the wicked man--what?
You know the quotation, I expect. Not one of my best--but give me time."
While she made tea he pried about her room, looking at photographs. He
paused here and there as one struck him, and commented aloud. "Old Nevile,
with his sour mouth.
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