Her husband had a sense of humour, which he
indulged for the most part in silence. He spoke rarely, swallowed his
laughter, and yet was good company. You felt his sympathy, found yourself
depending on it. You gauged his relish by a twinkle, by a deeper shade of
purple in his cheeks, by a twitching ear. The Stock Exchange gave him a
sufficiency, and his wife, with her taste for dinner-parties, saw to it
that it gave him no more. "Let's bleed old John," was Bill Chevenix's
pleasant way of suggesting an escapade which might run into hundreds. "It
will do him good," Mrs. John used to agree; and John Chevenix would
chuckle internally, and say, "Go it, you two." On these terms they were
all very happy.
Bill Chevenix had told his sister-in-law as much about Sanchia as he
thought fitting. To begin with, he took all responsibility upon himself
for the opening scene of her wild adventure. He had introduced "the chap"
into the Percival household, and it was he, too, who had _not_ introduced
the fact of his unhappy marriage. "Took it all for granted--thought they
knew it--forgot they didn't belong to that gang--your gang, my gang,
Nevile's gang. Rotten of me, my dear, but there you are.
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