"
"Perhaps," said Morosine, with a friendly look, "it's to cancel some of
them."
She held up a book. "Is that what you mean? Do look. _Songs,_ by S. Glyde.
Did you mean to tell me of that?"
Chevenix stared. "The poet Glyde? No. By Jove, though, not a bad shot. I
referred, my dear, to the poet Senhouse."
She received that full in the face. She paled, then coloured. Her heart
leaped, then stood still. She spelt with her blue eyes, "Tell me."
Chevenix peered at her. "Thought I should fetch you, my dear. The poet
Senhouse is run to ground, and I'm going to see him. That's all."
It was plain to Morosine that she was very much concerned with this
intelligence. She simply sat there, staring at Chevenix, shaking, moving
her white lips. She was as white as chalk and her eyes burned black in her
face. What on earth--who on earth--? He couldn't for the life of him make
it out. He had never heard of the man. It was a shock to him to discover--
so soon we flatter ourselves--that Sanchia had any reserve of confidence.
He had felt so sure of her!
"Another new poet?" he asked her. She recovered herself, shook her head.
"He's not new--to me. He's the greatest friend I ever had.
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