disbelieve his own client, who asks a citizen to be extreme to
mark what is done amiss in his country's quarrel?

"Now if the Dean did chance to do anything wrong, Mrs. Baxter simply
wouldn't see that it was wrong," she meditated. "Neither would Amy
Benyon, if Dick did. I see it's wrong and yet defend it. I'm the wrong
sort of woman to have married Alexander."

Yes, from that point of view, undoubtedly. But there was another. What
would Mrs. Baxter or Lady Richard have made of him at the times when he
woke to greatness? Dick had appreciated him then; Dick's wife never had;
she saw only the worst. Well, it was plain to see. May saw it so plain
that night that she sat where she was till the night was old because, if
she went upstairs, she might find him there. And she fell to wishing that
the seat at Henstead was not shaky; so much hung on it, her hopes for him
as well as his own hopes, her passionate interest in him as well as his
ambition. Nay, she had a feeling or a fear that more still hung on it.
Pondering there alone in the night, assessing her opinion and reviewing
her knowledge of him, she told herself that there was hardly anything
that he would not do sooner than lose the seat. So that she dreaded the
struggle for the strain it might put on him; strains of that sort she
knew now that he was not able to bear. "Lead us not into temptation," was
the prayer which must be on her lips for him; if that were not answered,
he was well-nigh past praying for altogether. For with temptation came
his blindness, and he no longer saw the thing that tempted him for what
it was. Oh, and what a fool she had been to think that she could make him
see!

At last she went upstairs, slowly and reluctantly. Passing her own door,
she mounted again to the baby's nursery, and entered softly. All was
peace; both baby and nurse slept. May was smiling as she came down the
stairs; she murmured, "Gaston!" mimicking the satisfied tones of old Aunt
Maria's voice. Then she entered her own room; Quisante's bed was empty. A
sense of great relief rose in her, but she went out again and softly
turned the handle of his dressing-room door. He had elected to sleep
there, as he often did. The light was still high; a book lay open by him
on the bed. He was in deep sleep, looking very pale, very tired, very
peaceful. She stood looking at him for a moment; again she smiled as she
stole forward and peeped at the book. It was a work on Bimetallism. Did
he me