ar about our show from Quisante himself."

"What?" Weston Marchmont's tone expressed surprise rather than pleasure.

"May's going to be there, and he's coming for the Sunday. Amy fought
hard, but Dick said he must come, because he was going to be a
connection." Jimmy's slow smile endured all through this speech; he had a
sense of humour which he treated gravely.

"I didn't know he was coming," said Marchmont. Sir Winterton broke into a
hearty laugh.

"You're the most prejudiced fellow in the world, Marchmont," he said. "I
tell you what, though," he went on. "Do persuade Lady May to take care of
her husband, or get him to take care of himself. My wife's been at her
again and again, but nothing's done. The man's not well, he'll break up
if they aren't careful." He paused, and a puzzled look came over his
handsome candid face. "If I was half as bad as he is, my wife'd have me
in bed or off to the seaside in a jiffy," he ended.

The silence that followed struck him much as May's and Aunt Maria's had
struck his wife. Neither he nor his wife were accustomed to the way in
which people who knew Quisante close at hand came to stand towards him.

"I suppose Lady May's not what you'd call a very domestic woman?" he
hazarded. "Charming, most charming, but full of politics and that sort of
thing, eh?"

To Weston Marchmont it seemed simplest to laugh and say, "I suppose so."
Sir Winterton's mind had need of categories, and was best not burdened
with the complexities of an individual. But Jimmy was not so wise.

"I don't think she cares a hang about politics, except so far as
Quisante's concerned in them," he said.

Sir Winterton looked more puzzled still. "Nothing's any good unless he
keeps his health," he murmured. He was uncomfortable; he liked May very
much, and did not welcome the thought of there being any truth in the
idea of indifference and carelessness about her husband at which Lady
Mildmay had sorrowfully hinted. "That's his wife's first business
anyhow," he ended, a trifle defiantly. But his challenge was not taken up
by either of his friends. He went home with his high spirits rather
dashed.

On the Friday Marchmont found himself travelling down to Ashwood in
company with Mr. Morewood. The painter had an extreme fit of his mocking
acidity; he refrained his tongue from nobody and showed no respect for
what might be guessed to be delicate points with his companion.
Quisante's success was his principal theme; he