nd behind the scenes of the national
theatre. There were reasons assigned, of course. One was that Marchmont
found himself ("I'll bet he does!" groaned Constantine with anticipatory
resignation) more in agreement with the other side than with his own on
an important question of foreign politics then to the front. But this
state of matters had ceased to be unusual with him and hardly in itself
accounted for the step he was now taking. The care of his estate was the
second reason, properly dismissed as plainly frivolous. In the end of the
letter more sincerity peeped out, as the writer lapsed from formality
into friendship. "I know I shall surprise many people and grieve some,
but I'm sick of the thing. I can't endure the perpetual haggling between
what I ought to do and what I'm expected to do; the compromises that
result satisfy me as little as anybody. In fine, my dear Constantine, I'm
going back to my pictures, my books, my hills, and my friends." Constantine
read with a genuine sorrow and criticised with a contemptuous sniff.
Pictures, books--and hills! Hills! It was insulting his intelligence. And
though friends were all very well, yet where was the use of them if a man
deprived himself of all the sources of entertaining conversation? But
there was nothing to be done--except to tell Lady Castlefort a day before
the rest of the world knew. Constantine held her favour on that tenure.
She showed no surprise.

"A loss to the country, but not to us," she said.

"Just what I think," agreed Constantine, with a revival of cheerfulness.

"If I hadn't known him since he was so high, I'd wish he had the
what-do-you-call-it seizures instead of the other man."

"But Quisante's not going, he means to hold on," said Constantine. "I'm
glad of it. Henstead's very shaky. But we shall hold Marchmont's seat all
right. We're going to put up Dick Benyon."

"He's safe enough, he won't worry you," said Lady Castlefort. "You'll
have to fight Henstead before long, all the same. The man'll die, you
know."

"Think so?" asked Constantine uneasily.

"And he will be a loss--a loss to us, whatever one may think about the
country." Constantine looked troubled. "Oh, it's not your business to
think about the country--or mine either, thank goodness," she added
rather irritably. She was more distressed about Weston Marchmont than she
chose to tell; and it was impossible not to be annoyed at the perversity.
Of the two men whom she had singled out