easily, or let a rival obtain too long a
start. There was nobody of whom the Statesman could be supposed to be
thinking, except the dark horse that Dick Benyon had brought into the
betting--Alexander Quisante! Such predictions from such quarters have no
small power of self-verification; they predispose lesser men to a
fatalistic acquiescence which smoothes the way of the prophecy.

Marchmont, scorning the rival, was inclined to despise the dangers of the
contest, but his supineness may have been in part due to the occupation
of his mind by another interest. He had come to the conclusion that he
wanted May Gaston for his wife and that she would accept his proposal. A
few days before the Easter holidays began he betook himself to Lady
Attlebridge's with the intention of settling the matter there and then.
The purpose of his coming seemed to be divined; he was shown direct to
May's own room, and found her there alone. She had been reading a letter
and laid it down on a table by her; Marchmont could not help his eye
catching the large printed address at the head of the sheet of paper,
"Ashwood." Ashwood was Dick Benyon's country place. A moment later May
explained the letter.

"I've had a wail from Amy Benyon," she said. "She wants me to go to them
for Easter and comfort her. Look what she writes: "You must come, dear. I
must be helped through, I must have a refuge. How in the world I ever did
such a thing I don't know! But I did and I can't help it now. He's
coming! So you must come. We expect the Baxters and Mr. Morewood. But I
want _you_.""

"What has she done? Who's coming?" asked Marchmont.

"Mr. Quisante."

He paused for a moment before he said, "You won't go, I suppose?"

"I must go if Amy wants me as much as that. Besides--well, perhaps it'll
be interesting."

A chill fell on Marchmont, and its influence spread to his companion.
Here at least he had hoped to be rid of Quisante, to find a place where
the man could not be met, and people to whom the man was as a friend
impossible. May read his thoughts, but her purpose wavered. She liked him
very much; that hot rebellious fit, which made her impatient of his
limits, was not on her now. He had found her in a more reasonable normal
mood, when his advantages pleaded hard for him, and the limits seemed
figments of a disorderly transient fancy. Thus he had come happily, and
success had been in the mood to kiss his standards.

"I wonder you can endure the man in th