ought crossed his mind that the contrast
between her two letters was an odd parallel to Dick's description of the
puzzling demeanour of his brother Jimmy. Was it a characteristic of the
man's to produce these sudden and startling changes of mood towards
himself? Marchmont was puzzled at the notion; he was too little able to
sympathise with the attraction to find himself capable of understanding
the force and extent of the revulsion. "At all events she must be pretty
well prepared for what he is by now," he said to himself with the mixture
of pity and resentment which his love for her and her rejection of him in
Quisante's favour had bred in his mind. For her he was very sorry; it was
harder to be quite simply and sincerely sorry that her blindness to what
had been so obvious was working out its inevitable result; he would like
to console her in any way short of refraining from pointing out how wrong
she had been proved.

When, in obedience to another note, he went, he did not at first find May
alone. Although he knew Sir Winterton Mildmay, he was not acquainted with
his wife, and was surprised when the kind-looking woman who sat with May
was introduced to him as Lady Mildmay. This was a quick and thorough
burying of the hatchet indeed. "Would you see this in any country except
England?" he asked jokingly. Lady Mildmay declared not, adding that there
was no bitterness in England because there was only upstanding fighting
which left no rancour and indeed bred personal liking. Marchmont thought
to himself that Quisante must have been very clever--or that this dear
woman (he gave her the epithet at once as everybody did) was not very
clever, no cleverer than he had long known handsome Sir Winterton to be.
Glancing across at May, he seemed to see an expression of absolute pain
on her face, as Lady Mildmay developed these amiable theories.

"I don't believe my husband will ever stand against yours again," she
said.

May looked at Marchmont. "They really have taken quite a fancy to one
another," she said with a laugh that sounded rather forced. "Funny, isn't
it?"

"The speech you invite me to would be a very unfortunate one to address
to the wives of the two gentlemen," he answered, smiling. "Funny indeed!
I prefer to call it inevitable, don't you, Lady Mildmay?"

May made the slightest gesture of impatience, but a moment later smiled
again at Lady Mildmay, saying, "Yes, I suppose that's what I ought to
have said."

The