But I couldn't help myself. It was
before me--it had to be done."
"No, no, no!" cried he vehemently, but checked himself. "Pardon, Sancie.
We won't go over all that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do. Now
that escapade in the pond, you know. That was all right--with only old
Senhouse in the way. You must admit that you were rather _decolletee_, to
say the least of it. Now, would you say that you can do those sort of
things--go as you please, you know, anywhere?"
"Why not?" Her eyes were straightly at him.
"What! Whether you're seen or not?"
She frowned. "I don't want to know whether I'm seen or not."
"And mostly you don't care?"
"And sometimes I don't care."
"Ah," said Chevenix, "there you are. Your 'sometimes' gives you away."
She changed the subject. "Do have some tea. It will be quite cold."
He had been staring again at the photograph--Sanchia's gleaming limbs, the
gypsy's intent face shadowed over the water. He now relinquished it with
an effort. "Thanks," he said. "I like it cold." He sat beside her, and
they talked casually, like old, fast friends, of mutual acquaintance. But
for him the air was charged; she was on his conscience. Reminiscences
paled and talk died down; he found himself staring at the wall.
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