f you always knew what a man's wife thought about him, you'd know a
great deal," said Mrs. Baxter. She possessed in the fullest degree her
sex's sense of an ultimate superiority in perception; men knew neither
what their wives did nor what they were; wives might not know what their
husbands did, but they always knew what they were. It would be rash to
differ from a person of her observation and experience; half a dozen
examples would at once have confounded the objector.

Mrs. Baxter took perhaps a too private and domestic view of the man whose
fate she was discussing; she judged the husband and friend, she had
nothing to say to the public character. The voices of his political
associates and acquaintances, of his fellow-workers in business, of his
followers and enthusiastic adherents in his constituency, did not reach
her ears, and perhaps, if they had, would not have won much attention.
The consternation of Constantine Blair, Lady Castlefort's dismay, the sad
gossiping and head-shaking that went on in the streets of Henstead and
round old Mr. Foster's comfortable board, witnessed to a side of Quisante
in which Mrs. Baxter did not take much interest. She did not understand
the sort of stupor with which they who had lived with him and worked with
him saw the force he wielded and the anticipations he filled them with
both struck down by a sudden blow; she did not share the feeling that all
at once a gap had been made in life.

But something of this sort was the effect in all the circles which
Quisante had invaded and in which he had moved. The philosophical might
already be saying that there was no necessary man; to the generality that
reflection would come only later, when they had found a new leader, a
fresh inspiration, and another personality in which to see the embodiment
of their hopes. Now the loss was too fresh and too complete; for although
it might be doubtful how long Quisante's life would last, there seemed no
chance of his ever filling the place to which he had appeared to be
destined. Only a miracle could give that back to one who must cling to
life, if he could keep his hold on it at all, at the cost of abandoning
all the efforts and all the activities which had made it what it was
alike for himself and for others. He was rallying slowly and painfully
from his blow; a repetition of it would be the certain penalty of any
strenuous mental exertion or any sustained strain of labour. In
inactivity, in retireme