of it. If ever a
man spoke plainly without words what was in his soul, Quisante spoke it
then. She could not miss the meaning of his eyes; all unprepared as she
was, it came home to her in a minute with a shock of wonder that forbade
either pain or pleasure and seemed to leave her numb. Now she saw how
truly she, no less than the others, had treated him as an outsider, as a
tool, as something to be used, not as one of their own world. For she had
never thought of his falling in love with her, and had never considered
him in that point of view at all. Yet he had, and here lay the reason why
he flirted no more, and why he would have her sympathy only on even
terms. Here also, it seemed, was the reason why his tricks were
forgotten, why he was simple and direct; here was the incitement to
imagination, the ideal, the passion that had power to fire and purge his
soul.

"We must go in," she whispered in a shaking voice. "We must go in, Mr.
Quisante."

CHAPTER VI.

ON DUTY HILL.

Another week had gone by, and, although nothing very palpable had
happened, there was a sort of vague scare in the house-party. It touched
everybody, affecting them in different ways according to their characters,
but raising in all an indignant protest against a fact hardly credible
and a danger scarcely to be named. Not even Mrs. Baxter, entrenched in
placidity and petticoats, quite escaped its influence; even Morewood's
cynical humour hesitated to play on a situation so unexpected, possibly
so serious. Lady Richard's alarm was the most outspoken, and her dismay
the most clamorous; yet perhaps in Dick Benyon himself was the strongest
fear. For if that did happen which seemed to be happening beneath the
incredulous gaze of their eyes, who but he was responsible, to whose
account save his could the result be laid? He had brought the man into
the circle, into the house, into the knowledge of his friends; but for
him Quisante might have been carving a career far away, or have given up
any idea of one at all.

More than this, Dick, seeking approval and sympathy, had looked round for
open and intelligent souls who would share his interest, his hopes, and
his enthusiasm, and on no soul had he spent more pains or built higher
anticipations than May Gaston's. She was to sympathise, to share the
hopes and to understand the enthusiasm. Had he not asked her to dinner,
had he not brought her