exhibited it in its four
aspects, political, social, commercial, and matrimonial.

"I've talked," he said, "to Constantine Blair, to Lady Castlefort, to
Winterton Mildmay, and to Jimmy Benyon. There's nothing left for all of
us but to fall down and worship. On to your knees with the rest of us, my
friend! In every relation of life the man is great. You'll say he's
objectionable. Quite so. Greatness always is. You're still pleasant,
because you haven't become great."

"A few people think you a great artist."

"Quite a few," grinned Morewood. "I can still set up for being pleasant."

This mood did not leave him with his arrival at Ashwood. He reminded
Marchmont of a monkey who had some trick to play, and grinned and
chattered in anticipation of his cruel fun; his smile was most mocking
when he greeted May Quisante. She was in high spirits; girlish gaiety
marked a holiday mood in her. Morewood seemed to encourage it with
malicious care, letting it grow that he might strike at it with better
effect later on. Yet what did the man know, what could he do? And though
Dick Benyon winced at his darts, and Jimmy grew a little sulky, May
herself seemed unconscious of them. She was ready to meet him in talk
about her husband and her husband's plans; she laughed at his jibes in
all the apparent security of a happy confidence. Such a state of things
exactly suited Lady Richard; she would not wish May to be pained, but she
enjoyed infinitely any legitimate "dig" at her old enemy. May fought with
equal gallantry and good temper.

"Success is our crime," she said gaily at dinner. "Mr. Morewood can't
forgive it. You call us Philistines now, I expect, don't you?"

"Philistines in the very highest degree," he nodded.

"I know," she cried. "The only really cultivated thing is to fail
elegantly."

"Let's bow our acknowledgments," Morewood called across to Marchmont.

"Oh, no, Mr. Marchmont isn't like that. He doesn't even try. Well,
perhaps that's still more superior." She smiled at Marchmont, shaking her
head. "But we try, we try everything."

The "we" grated still on Marchmont's feelings, and the worse because it
seemed to come more easily and naturally from her lips. Yet that might be
only the result of practice; she had looked at him in a merry defiance as
the last words left her lips.

"And you get other people to try your things too," pursued Morewood.

"Look here, you don't mean me, do you?" Jimmy Benyon put in. "Because I