pportunity to the best advantage.
From day to day now she wavered between the fear and the fascination, and
on this day the fear was stronger and, working together with her
affection for Marchmont, might well have gained him the victory.
Ill-usage of Quisante would perhaps have been involved here, but May
would not have stood at that, had it been made plain to her heart that in
the end the man could not be accepted or endured. To win, Marchmont
should have made love to her in his own way, refused to accept his
dismissal, and pressed his own suit on his own merits, leaving his rival
to stand the contrast as he best might, but not dragging him explicitly
into the issue between himself and May. He did not take this course; to
his pride it was difficult to plead passionately again when his former
pleading had been rebuffed; and the intensity of his desire to show her
the truth about Quisante, and at all costs to rescue her from Quisante,
made him devote more energy to denouncing his rival than to recommending
himself. Thus he set May to defend the absent friend rather than to pity
and be drawn towards the suitor who was before her. Yet in spite of his
mistaken tactics, he shook her sorely; all that was in his favour came
home to her with renewed force; she looked on him with pleasure and heard
his voice again with delight; it was very pleasant to her to be with him;
she admitted to herself that very, very easily she might be in love with
him. Old Miss Quisante's advice recurred to her mind; was this the nice
husband who would give her a safety not incompatible with a continued
interest in Alexander Quisante? She smiled regretfully; Marchmont did not
fit at all into Aunt Maria's scheme.

"I don't want to question you," he said, "but if you will speak plainly
to me I shall be glad. The change came at Ashwood?"

"There's been no change; there's been a failure to change. When I saw you
last, I thought I might change so as to be able to do what you wanted.
Now I know I can't."

"And why?" She was silent; he went on, speaking lower. "Is there any
truth at all in what Dick Benyon thinks? It seemed to me incredible. Will
you tell me that I may utterly disbelieve that at all events?"

"No, I can't tell you to disbelieve it utterly."

The love for her which was his strongest appeal left his face; he looked
aghast, at a loss, almost disgusted. His hands moved in a gesture of
protest.

"I don't tell you to believe it. I can tell