ng in the dinner-hour, had ten interviews, and the usual
palaver with Japhet."

"How are Mr. Williams' feelings?" asked May.

"He's all right now," said Quisante, smiling. Then he added, "Oh, and
we've wired to town for two hundred and fifty more of 77."

Then May knew what was going to happen. Quisante was roused. The placard
was untrue, at least misleading, and he knew it was; he might have
retreated before young Terence and sheltered himself by an inglorious
disclaimer. That, as Aunt Maria said, was not Sandro's way. No. 77 came
down by the afternoon train, a corps of bill-posters was let loose, and
as they drove to the evening meeting the town was red with it. Withdrawn,
disclaimed, apologised for? It was insisted on, relied on, made a trump
card of, flung full in young Terence's audacious face. May sat by her
husband in that strange mixed mood that he roused in her, half pride,
half humiliation; scorning him because he would not bow before the truth,
exulting in the audacity, the dash, and the daring of him, at the spirit
that caught victory out of danger and turned mistake into an occasion of
triumph. For triumph it was that night. Who could doubt his sincerity,
who question the injured honour that rang like a trumpet through his
words? And who could throw any further slur on No. 77, thus splendidly
championed, vindicated, and almost sanctified? Never yet in Henstead had
they heard him so inspired; to May herself it seemed the finest thing he
had yet done; and even young Terence, when he read it, felt glad that he
had left Henstead by the morning train.

As Quisante sank into his chair amid a tumult of applause, Foster winked
across the platform at May; but little Japhet Williams was clapping his
hands as madly as any man among them. Who could not congratulate him, who
could not praise him, who could not feel that he was a man to be proud of
and a man to serve? Yet most undoubtedly No. 77 was untrue or at least
misleading, and Alexander Quisante knew it. Undoubtedly he had said "No
more of it." And now he had pinned it as his colours to the mast. May
found herself looking at him with as fresh an interest and as great a
fear as in the first weeks of their marriage. Would she in her heart have
had him honest over No. 77, honest and inglorious? Or was she coming to
think as he did, and to ask little concerning honesty? What would Weston
Marchmont think of the affair? Or, short of that, how Morewood would
smile and