and found him rising to his feet. Much puzzled,
Quisante looked again from one to the other, noting the sudden constraint
that had fallen on them. What had he said? What was there in the mention
of the Alethea to disturb a conversation so harmonious? That there was
something his quick wit told him in a moment. While Marchmont said
good-bye to May he stood by, frowning a little, and then escorted his
guest downstairs. While he was away his wife stood quite still in the
middle of the room, a little flushed and breathing rather quickly.

Quisante came back, sat down, and took up a newspaper. May sat in her
usual chair, doing nothing. Presently he asked, "Did I say anything
wrong?"

"No. But I'd rather you didn't talk about the Alethea when Mr. Marchmont
is with us." He looked up in, surprise. "It embarrasses me--and him too."

"Embarrasses you? Why should it?"

"There's no use in my telling you."

"I can't see why it should embarrass you. Pray tell me."

She sat silent for a moment or two. "It's no good," she said, looking
over to him with a forlorn smile. He moved his hand impatiently. "Very
well. At dinner at Ashwood, on the night you were taken ill, somebody
talked about the Alethea and said Professor Maturin had told him there
was a fatal defect in it. He hadn't seen the prospectus. And I----" She
paused a moment. "I had to back up your version." Again she broke off for
a moment. "And after dinner Mr. Marchmont talked to me; and I cried about
it. So, you see, references are embarrassing."

After a pause of a minute or two Quisante said, "Cried about it? About
what?"

She raised her eyes, looked at him a moment, and said simply, "About
having to tell a lie to them." And she added with a sudden quiver in her
voice, "I've known them all my life."

"Maturin was quite wrong. There's absolutely no doubt about that now."

"Was he?" she asked listlessly.

"What did you say?"

"That he'd expressed a favourable opinion about it to you. I kept to the
prospectus. Oh, there's no use talking. It's only with Mr. Marchmont that
it matters. I can't keep it up before him, because he found me crying,
you know."

"Crying!" murmured Quisante. "Crying!" She nodded at him, with the same
faint smile on her lips. The silence seemed very long as she looked at
him and he gazed straight before him, the forgotten paper falling with a
rustle from his knees on to the floor.

"You never told me," he said at last.

"Why should I? W