deepest sympathies. Perhaps this was only to treat him as he
deserved to be treated; if he asked nothing but a mutual usefulness and
accommodation, that they should use him and he should rise by serving
them, neither party was deceived and neither had any cause to complain.
But if after all the man was like most men, if his chilly childhood and
his lonely youth had left him with any desire for unreserved
companionship, for true friendship, or for love, then to acquiesce in his
bad manners and his worse morals, to be content (as the Dean said) to
make the best of him--out of him would have been a more sincere form of
expression--as he was, seemed in some sort cruelty; it was like growing
rich out of the skill of your craftsmen and yet taking no interest in
their happiness or welfare. It was to use him only as a means, and to be
content in turn to be to him only a means; such a relative position
excluded true human intercourse, and, it appeared to May, must intensify
the faults from which it arose. Even here, in this house, Quisante was
almost a stranger; the rest were easy with one another, their presence
was natural and came of itself; he alone was there for a purpose, came
from outside, and required to be accounted for. If the talk with the Dean
confirmed apprehensions already existing, on the other hand it raised a
new force of sympathy and a fresh impulse to kindness. But the sympathy
and the apprehensions could make no treaty; fierce war waged between
them.

That night the turn of events served Quisante. He seemed ill and tired,
yet he had flashes of brilliancy. Again it was made plain that, all said
and done, his was the master mind there; even Lady Richard had to listen
and Fred Wentworth to wonder unwillingly where the fellow got his
notions. After dinner he talked to them, and they gave him all their ears
until he chose to cease and sank back wearied in his chair. But then came
the contrast. The Dean went to the library, Lady Richard strolled out of
doors with Fred, Mrs. Baxter withdrew into seclusion with a novel and a
petticoat, Dick Benyon asked May to walk in the garden with him, and when
she refused went off to play billiards with Morewood. May had pleaded
letters to write and sat down to the task. The man who a little while ago
had been the centre of attention was left alone. He wandered about idly
for a few moments, then dropped into a chair, seeming too tired to read,
looking fretful, listless, solitary