him,
she half turned her head towards him. "That's my husband's right-hand man
at Henstead," she said. "They understand each other perfectly."

"He looks a sharp fellow."

"So he may be able to understand Alexander? Thank you. I like to have his
picture here." Suddenly she turned round full on him, stretching out her
hand. "I wish you'd go now," she said. "Have you turned stupid, or don't
you see that you must leave me alone, or--or I shall say all sorts of
things I mustn't? That man on the mantelpiece there typifies it all.
Bless his dear old fat face! I like him so much--and he's such a humbug,
and I don't think he knows that he's in the least a humbug. Is sincerity
just stupidity?" Her mirth broke out. "Alexander hates my having him
there," she whispered; then she drew away, crying, "Go, go."

"I'm off," said he. "But why doesn't Quisante like the old gentleman's
picture, and why do you keep it there if he doesn't?"

"And why are none of us perfect--except perhaps the Mildmays? Good-bye."
She gave him her hand. "Oh, by the way," she went on, calling him back
after he had turned, "have you ever had anything to do with promoting
companies or anything of that kind?"

"Well, no, I can't say I have."

"Is it necessarily disreputable?"

"Oh, no," he smiled. "Not necessarily. In fact it's an essential feature
in the life of a commercial nation." He was mockingly grave again.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Marchmont. An essential feature of the life in
a commercial nation! That's very good." She broke into a laugh. "Now I've
got something agreeable to say," she said. He did not move till she shook
her head violently at him and pointed to the door. As he went out, she
turned back to Mr. Foster's picture, murmuring, "It's no use my setting
up for a martyr. Martyrs don't giggle half the time." Had Marchmont heard
her, the word "giggle" would have stirred him to real indignation; it was
so inappropriate to that low reluctant mirth-laden laugh of hers, which
seemed to reveal the feeling that it mocked and extorted the pity that it
could not but deride. It sounded again as she stood looking at old Foster
the maltster's picture there on the mantelpiece where Quisante did not
like to see it.

For what was the meaning of it to her, declared by her perverse
determination to keep it there and plain enough to her husband's quick
wit? It was the outward sign that her malicious fancy chose of the new
state of feeling and the new re