hing happened to him, I
should feel I might as well lie down and die. Of course I've got nobody
else belonging to me; you're not like that." Again the forefinger was
raised in admonition, and Miss Quisante gave a piece of practical advice.
"Marry a nice man of your own sort, my dear, and when you're safely
married, be as much interested in Sandro as you like."

May was not quite sure of the morality of this counsel; it seemed
possible that Aunt Maria shared the vagueness about right and wrong which
she quarrelled with in her nephew. She laughed as she said,

"But then Mr. Quisante would marry some other woman, and she mightn't
like it. And my nice husband mightn't like it."

It was possible to discuss the matter far more frankly with Miss Quisante
than with anybody else, yet the talk with her was only the first of
several in which May tried to glean what would be thought of such a step
as marrying Alexander Quisante. Almost everywhere she found, not only the
lack of encouragement which Aunt Maria had shown, but an amazement hardly
distinguishable from horror and an utter failure to understand her point
of view; her care to conceal any personal interest in the discussions she
found means to bring about gained her very candid expressions of opinion
about Quisante, and she became aware that her world would regard her as
something like a lunatic if it awoke one morning to read of her
engagement to the man.

Yet side by side with this feeling there was a great and a growing
expectancy with regard to him in his public aspect. He began to be a
figure, somebody of whom account would have to be taken; Dick Benyon's
infatuation was less often mentioned, his sagacity more often praised.
May was struck again with the sharp line drawn between the man himself,
and what he was to do, with the way in which everybody proposed to invite
him to his house, but nobody contemplated admitting him to his heart. The
inhumanity made her angry again, but she was alone in perceiving it; and
she was half-aware that her perception of it would be far keener than
Quisante's own. In fact it was very doubtful if he asked any more of the
world than what the world was prepared to give him. But that, said May,
was not because he lacked the power and the desire of love, but because
his affections were withered by neglect or rusty from disuse. She knew
well that they were there and would expand under the influence of
sympathy. If people grew human towards