for greatness one might go on but
would not, the other asked nothing but to be allowed to go on, and found
refusal at the hands of fate. There was another thing in her thoughts
too. She had a strong belief in hostesses, natural to her, perhaps not
unreasonable. In either of two events she had foreseen an ideal hostess
for the party in the woman she still thought of as May Gaston. There was
no need to detail the two events; suffice it to say that, whichever of
them now happened, it appeared that May Gaston would not be able to
figure as a great hostess; at least there would have to rise for her some
star not yet visible in the heavens.

Marchmont and May had neither met nor written to one another since their
talk under the tree at Ashwood. He had not doubted that she would
understand silence and like silence best; from him any word seemed
impossible. But on the day when his determination was made public he
received a summons from her and at once obeyed it. He found her alone,
though she told him that she expected Quisante back from the City in a
little while.

"He wants to see you," she said. "I don't know why, unless it's just as a
curiosity." She smiled for a moment. "I'm sorry you find you can't stand
it," she went on.

"You understand? You've been in that state of mind or pretty near it, I
know."

"Yes, pretty near at times, but I'm not as honest as you. I may see all
you see, but I should always go on." She glanced at him. "I'm more like
my husband than I'm like you," she ended.

"I don't believe that," he said gravely.

"I know you don't, but it's true. I daresay you never will understand it,
because of the other May Gaston you've made for yourself. But it's true.
And you know what he is. He's ready to give body and soul--Oh, I'm not
just using a phrase--body and soul to keep the things that you've given
up for your hills. How scornful your hills made Constantine Blair!"

"Are you importing metaphorical meanings into my hills?" he asked,
sitting down near her.

"Yes," she answered. "Mr. Blair didn't, but I do."

"Perhaps it was rather a silly thing to say."

"No, I don't think so."

"I mean to Constantine."

"Oh, well then, perhaps it was," she admitted, smiling. "But that's all
consistent, isn't it? You couldn't trim your sails to suit the breeze
even in a letter like that."

"Are you rebuking me? Are you contemptuous? What are you?" He leant back
and looked at her, smiling.

"If my husband wou