Looks as if the tongs had nipped him in the act. Why
_will_ he roll his moustache like that? It's not pretty--shows him like a
boar, with his tusks out, don't you think? But he's a good-looking beggar,
and knows it. Ah! and there you all are--or, rather, were--all five of
you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, you. What a bevy! I say--" He
turned to her. "I met old Vicky, for a minute, the other day. Met her in
Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or something, down at Aldershot.
Expensive complaint, seemingly. So she'd come up to see a palmist, or some
kind of an expert about him. She spoke of you, of her own accord. I said I
was coming down here."
Sanchia's hand at the kettle was steady, but her eyes flickered before
they took the veil. "Tell me about Vicky. What did she say--of me?"
Chevenix came to the tea-table and stood by her. "I think Vicky's all
right. I do indeed. It seems to me she'd give her ears to see you--simple
ears. Sinclair, you'll find, is the trouble. He's the usual airy kind of
ass. Makes laws for his womankind, and has 'em kept. Vicky likes it, too."
"I suppose he is like that," Sanchia said, as if it was a curious case. "I
have never spoken to him.
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