"I
shall take this as she means it, Bill. She wants me to go slow--I can take
a hint. She shall have her head. When I get her down to Wanless we shall
be all right. The place isn't fit to live in now, you know. I was up there
last week--and found everything going to pot. Not a horse fit to ride--not
a sound one amongst 'em. Plantations all to pieces--gardens--tenants in
arrears--oh, beastly! She'll have it all to rights in no time, and she'll
simply revel in it. She'll come round--you leave that to me. If _I_ can't
get a girl round I ought to."
Chevenix listened, and judged. He knew his Ingram pretty well, and took
his confidence, like his confidences, for what they were worth. "Where did
you say that the Duplessis lived?"
"I think she's in a hotel. It might be Brown's. I believe it _is_ Brown's.
What d'you want her for?"
"Think she knows some of my people," said Chevenix, and presently took
himself out of the Coffee Tree Club.
But Sanchia, her day's work done, went--not to church, but to Bloomsbury.
Entering the portals of the Museum, she swam to the portico, full of her
cares. But smoothly, swiftly, she went, with that even, gliding gait
peculiar to her kind, which has precisely the effect of a swan breasting
the stream.
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