have foreseen it from the first hour that
they took up Quisante. In this stress of feeling the brothers spoke to
one another with candour.

"You know how I feel about Fanny," said Jimmy, "so you can imagine how
much I like it."

"Oh, yes, I know; and I quite understand that you wanted Marchmont to
marry May," Dick retorted in an alien savageness born of his wounded
spirit.

Jimmy was taken aback by this direct onslaught, but his native honesty
forbade him to deny the charge point-blank.

"Supposing she came to like me," he grumbled, "it wouldn't be over and
above pleasant to have Quisante for a brother-in-law."

Dick was roused; he summoned up his old faith and his old admiration.

"I tell you what," he said, "the only chance you have of your name being
known to posterity is if you succeed in becoming his brother-in-law."

"Damn posterity," said Jimmy, tugging at his moustache. He had never
entertained the absurd idea of interesting future ages. He began to
perceive more and more clearly how ridiculous his brother had made
himself over the fellow; he had shared in the folly, but now at least he
could repent and dissociate himself from it.

"What does the Dean say?" he asked maliciously.

"I dare say you won't understand," Dick answered in measured tones, "but
the Dean's got sense enough to say nothing. Talking's no use, is it?"

Few indeed shared the Dean's wisdom, or the somewhat limited view that
talking is only to be practised when it chances to be useful. Are we
never to discuss the obvious or to deplore the inevitable? From so stern
a code human nature revolts, and the storm of volubility went on in spite
of the silence of the Dean of St. Neot's. Even this silence was imperfect
in so far as the Dean said a word or two in private to Morewood when he
visited him in his studio, and the pair were looking at Quisante's
picture. Dick Benyon was less anxious now to have it finished and sent
home in the shortest possible time.

"You've seen some good in him," said the Dean, pointing to the picture.

"Well--something anyhow," said Morewood.

"I think, you know," the Dean pursued meditatively, "that a great woman
might succeed in what she's undertaken (Morewood did not need the mention
of May Gaston's name), at the cost of sacrificing all her other interests
and most of her feelings."

Morewood was lighting his pipe and made no answer.

"Is our dear young friend a great woman, though?" asked the Dean.

"Sh