ou is what he would want. He
would want to have had it all."

He raised his hand in protest.

"You're right; we won't talk any more," she said. "But don't think that
it's all only because I'm overwrought, or something feminine of that
kind. It's the truth. When it comes, Aunt Maria'll die and I shall live;
but the difference won't be as great as it sounds."

This time he was about to speak, but she stopped him, saying, "No, no
more now. Tell me about Dick Benyon. He's to have your seat, isn't he?"

"Yes, I'm gathered to my fathers, and Dick reigns in my stead."

"You're sorry?" she asked, forgetting Dick and coming back again to the
man before her.

"Yes; but I accept the inevitable and contrive to be quite cheerful about
it."

"We don't do either of those things. Hark, I hear my husband's step."

Quisante ran quickly up the stairs and burst into the room. His face was
alight with animation, and before greeting Marchmont he cried, "I've
carried it, I've brought them round. We attack all along the line, and I
open the ball at Henstead next week! They'll be out in six months, and I
shall----" Suddenly he paused. "They'll be out in six months," he said
again.

Marchmont rose and shook hands, "It doesn't matter to me now if they
are," he said, laughing. "Blair's troubles and mine are both over now."

"I know," nodded Quisante. "Well, I suppose you know best. But hasn't May
been trying to convert you?"

"No, I haven't tried to convert him," she said. "I'm not going to try to
convert people any more."

After this she fell into silence, listening and watching while the two
men talked. Talk between them could never be intimate and could hardly be
even easy, but they interested one another to-day. On Quisante's face
especially there was a look of searching, of wonder, of a kind of
protest. Once he flung himself back and stared at his guest with a fixity
of gaze painful to see. But he said nothing of what was passing in his
mind. At last Marchmont turned to May again.

"I shall hear of you at Henstead," he said. "I'm going to pay the
Mildmays a visit. I suppose, as you're on the war-path, you won't come
over?"

"I might," she said, "if we were there long enough. I expect Alexander
mustn't. Friendship with the enemy is not always appreciated."

"Oh, I might go," Quisante remarked. "The Alethea's an admirable excuse."
He spoke with a laugh but then, glancing at his wife, saw her face flush.
He turned to Marchmont