world could not go on talking about it for ever; they had a number of
other people's affairs to attend to, and the vagaries of one fanciful
young woman could not occupy their important minds for ever. None the
less, they turned away with a pleasant sense that they might find good
reason for turning back presently; let a year or two of the marriage run,
and there might be something to look at again.

But to one man the thing never became less strange, less engrossing, or
less horrible. Weston Marchmont abandoned as pure folly the attempt to
accustom his mind to it or to acquiesce in it; he had not the power to
cease to think of it. It was unnatural; to that he returned always; and
it ousted what surely was natural, what his whole being cried out was
meant, if there were such a thing as a purpose in human lives at all.
Disguised by his habit of self-repression before others, his passion was
as strong as Quisante's own; it was backed by a harmony of tastes and a
similarity of training which gave it increased intensity; it had been
encouraged by an apparent promise of success, now turned to utter
failure. Amy Benyon might think that he would now marry Fanny, if only he
could endure such an indirect connection with Quisante. To himself it
seemed so impossible to think of anyone but May that in face of facts he
could not believe that he was not foremost in her heart. The facts meant
marriage, it seemed; he denied that they meant love. He discerned what
May had said to Quisante--although not of course that she had said
it--and it filled him with a more unendurable revolt. He might have
tolerated a defeat in love; not to be defeated and yet to suffer all the
pains of the vanquished was not to be borne. But he was helpless, and
when he had tried to plead his cause he had done himself no good. He had
rather so conducted himself as to give May Gaston the right to shut the
door on any further friendship with him; towards her future husband he
had never varied from an attitude of cool disdain. It was more than a
month since he had seen her, it was longer since he had done more than
nod carelessly to Quisante as they passed one another in the lobby or the
smoking-room.

Then one day, a fortnight before the marriage, he met Quisante as they
were both leaving the House about four o'clock. On a sudden impulse he
joined his rival. He knew his man; Quisante received him with
friendliness and even effusion, and invited him to join him in