He was about, of course--but Vicky took him up
after--my time." For a moment emotion, like a wet cloud, drifted across
her eyes. "I should like to see Vicky again. It's eight years."
Chevenix was anxious. "I do think it could be managed, you know--with
tact. I'd do any mortal thing, Sancie--you know I would, but--" He
despaired. "Tact! Tact! That's what you want."
Her soft mood chased away. She looked at him full. "I can't use what you
call tact with Vicky. That means that I am to grovel." She drove him back
to his photographs. He peered into the little print on the wall.
"What have we here? A domestic scene, my hat! You appear to be bathing--
well over the knee, anyhow. High-girt Diana, when no man is by. Awfully
jolly you look. But he _is_ by. Who on earth's this chap?" He peered.
Sanchia from her tea-table watched him, in happy muse. He shouted his
discovery. "I remember the chap! Now, what on earth was he called? Your
casual friend, who lived in a cart and only had three pair of bags.
Nohouse--Senhouse! That was the man." He looked with interest at the pair,
then at Sanchia. "Mixed bathing--what?"
She laughed. "Yes--we both got wet to the skin. Percy Charnock took it
ages ago--oh, ages! Before I was out, or knew Nevile, or anybody except
you.
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