er the greatness or the pliancy. The Dean could see with what ardour
he maintained his position; in spite of the unvarying suavity of his
manner there was something naturally repulsive to him in yielding a
hair's breadth in deference to the wishes or the weaknesses of a
majority.

"Your independence is really half a prejudice," said the Dean at the
end. "You're like a man who can't get a cab and misses his appointment
sooner than ride in a 'bus."

"I suppose so--and I'm much obliged to you. But--well, you can argue
against what a man does, but what's the use arguing against what he is?"

"No; he himself's the only man who can do that," said the Dean, but he
knew as well as Marchmont himself that such an argument would never be
victorious. The will to change was wanting; Marchmont might deplore what
he lost by being what he was, and at times he felt very sore about it;
but as a matter of taste he liked himself just as he was, even as he
liked the few people in whom he found some of the same flavour and the
same bent of mind.

His character was knit consistently all through; whether he dealt with
public affairs or ordered his own life the same line of conduct was
followed. If he could not have things as he wanted them or do them as he
chose, he would not have them or do them at all. He was not modifiable.
For example, having failed to win May Gaston, he had no thought of
trying for Fanny, and this not (as Lady Richard had thought likely)
because he objected to any sort of connection with Quisante; that point
of view did not occur to him; it was merely because Fanny was not May,
and May was what he had wanted and did want. Fanny he left to the
gradual, uphill, but probably finally successful, wooing of Jimmy
Benyon. Even with regard to May herself he very nearly achieved
consistency. His promise to be often at Quisante's house had been
flagrantly and conspicuously broken. Quisante had pressed him often; on
the three occasions on which he had called May had let him see how
gladly she would welcome him more often. He had not gone more often.
He was not sulking, for his temper was not touched; but he held aloof
because it was not to his taste to go under existing circumstances.
He knew that he gave pain to her and regretted the pain, but he could
not go, any more than he could give a vote because his good friend
Constantine Blair, the Whip, was very much put out when he wouldn't. "He
wants a party all to himself," said Co