imes were critical, and the rest declared that they would
not flog a willing horse, but knew that Mr. Quisante would do his duty.
Unquestionably Henstead's effect was bad, both for the compromise and for
Quisante. Minute by minute May saw how the old fascination grew on him,
how more and more he forgot that this was to be the last effort, that it
was an end, not a beginning. He gave pledges of action, he would not
positively decline engagements, he talked as though he would be in his
place in Parliament throughout the session. While doing all this he
avoided meeting her eye; he would have found nothing worse than pity
touched with amusement. But he kept declaring to her, when they had a
chance of being alone, that he was loyal to their compact. "Though it's
pretty hard," he added with a renewal of his bitterness against the fate
that constrained him.

"We ought never to have come," she said. "It makes it worse. I wish we
hadn't."

"Wait till you've heard me to-morrow night," he whispered, pressing her
hand and looking into her eyes with the glee of anticipated triumph.

He was going to make a great speech, she knew that very well; there were
all the signs about him, the glee, the pride, the occasional absence of
mind, the frequent appeal for sympathy, the need of a confidence to
answer and confirm his own. Such a mood, in spite of its element of
childishness, was yet a good one with him. It raised him above pettiness
and made him impatient of old Foster's cunning little devices for
capturing an enemy or confirming the allegiance of a doubtful friend. He
had for the time forgotten himself in his work, the position in what he
meant to do with it; he would have delivered that speech now if the price
had been the loss of his seat; whatever the price was, that speech now
would have its way, all of it, whole and unimpaired, even the passage on
which Foster was consulted with the result that its suppression was
declared imperative in view of Japhet Williams' feelings. "Damn Japhet
Williams," said Quisante with a laugh, and Quisante's wife found herself
wishing that he would "damn" a few more men and things. It was just the
habit that he wanted, just the thing that Marchmont and Dick Benyon and
men like them had. Oh, if he could win and keep it!

"He must consider local feeling," said old Foster, pinching a fat chin in
fear and doubt.

"No, he needn't, no, he needn't now," she cried. "He'll carry it with
him, whatever he d