Sanchia's heart was so light she scarcely touched the
ground. She swam the air, not flew. Chevenix pounded in her wake.
"You know," he told her by and by, "he's alone here? A solitary figure?
Doing the hermit? Crying in the Wilderness?"
She had guessed, but not known that. Caution set a guard upon her eyes and
tongue. "Do you mean--that he's always alone?"
"Bless you, yes. His lady couldn't stick it. She fled. But she's quite
fond of him--in her way. I found out his address from her. She was quite
glad I was going to see him. But she never goes herself, I believe. She's
married. Other views altogether, she has. Or _he_ has--her husband, you
know. It was a rum business altogether, her taking up with old Senhouse. I
could have told her what would come of that, if she'd asked me. No malice,
you know--now. They're good friends. Write to each other. As a fact, she's
married. She was a widow. She married a man I know, a chap in the House,
name of Duplessis. Sulky chap, but able. Keeps her in order. Old Senhouse
will speak about it--you see if he don't."
She was full of thought over these sayings. What had he been about when he
mated with a woman of this sort? "A man don't live like that," had been
Nevile's explanation of part of his own history.
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