led her; she must know more of
the man; she must launch a boat on this unexplored ocean--for the
Benyons had not navigated it, they only stood gaping on the beach. Here
was scope for that unruly spirit of hers which Marchmont's culture and
Marchmont's fascination could neither minister to nor assuage.

She was gazing intently at Quisante when she became conscious of Mrs.
Gellatly's eyes on her. Mrs. Gellatly looked frightened still;
accustomed tactfully to screen awkwardness, she was rather at a loss in
the face of naked energy. She sought to share her alarm with May Gaston,
but May was like a climber fronted by a mountain range.

"You may be right and you may be wrong," said Morewood. "At least I
don't know anybody who can settle the quarrel between facts and dreams."

"There isn't any quarrel."

"There's a little stiffness anyhow," urged Morewood, still unwontedly
docile.

"They'd get on better if they saw more of one another," suggested May
timidly. It was her first intervention. She felt its insignificance. She
would not have complained if Quisante had followed Morewood's example
and taken no notice of it. He stopped, turned to her with exaggerated
deference, and greeted her obvious little carrying out of the metaphor
as though it were a heaven-sent light. Somehow in doing this he seemed
to fall all in an instant from lofty heights to depths almost beyond
eyesight. While he complimented her elaborately, Morewood turned away in
open impatience. Another topic was started, the conversation was killed;
or, to put it as she put it to herself, that moment of Quisante's was
ended. Did his moments always end like that? Did they fade before a
breath, like the frailest flower? Did the contemptible always follow in
a flash on the entrancing?

Presently she found a chance for a whisper to Morewood.

"How are you painting him?" she asked.

"You must come and see," he replied, with a rather sour grin.

"So I will, but tell me now. You know the difference, I mean?"

"Oh, and do you already? Well, I shall do him making himself agreeable
to a lady."

"For heaven's sake don't!" she whispered, half-laughing yet not without
seriousness. The man was a malicious creature and might well caricature
what he was bound to idealise to the extreme limit of nature's
sufferance. Such a trick would be hardly honest to Dick Benyon, but
Morewood would plead his art with unashamed effrontery, and, if more
were needed, tell Dick to take h