She saw
herself trapped; felt the steel bite to the bone. Tears might have helped
her, but she had none: pray she could not, nor crave mercy. It was not
Ingram who held her caged, but Destiny; and there's no war with him.
She thought of Vicky, of Melusine. Their kisses would have been sweet, but
she knew what they would say. Melusine's sideways head, her sighed,
"Dearest, how sad! But life is so serious, isn't it?" She saw the gleam in
Vicky's eyes, and heard her "Dear old Sancie, how splendid! Now you'll be
all right." Then she would clasp her round the neck and whisper in her
ear, "Do make me an aunt--I shall adore your baby. Quick, darling!" She
turned her back on Kensington and Camberley, and went into the City, to
The Poultry, with her griefs.
Poor Mr. Percival's rosy gills and white whiskers, his invariable, "Well,
Sancie--well, my dear, well, well--" called her home. She ran forward,
clung to him, and lay a while in his arms, short-breathing, breathless for
the advent of peace. To his, "What is it, my love? Tell your old father
all about it," she could only murmur, "Oh, dearest, what shall I do?" He
urged her again to tell him what the matter was--"What has hurt you? Who
has dared to hurt my darling? Show me that scoundrel--" but she was
luxuriating in new comfort and would say nothing.
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