Dick half-interrogatively. He did not seem sure
that his companion had chosen the right, or at any rate the best, word
to describe his feelings. In response she amended her question.

"Well, I mean, what do you see in him?"

Here was another fatal question, for Dick saw everything in him. Hastily
cutting across the eulogies, she demanded particulars--who was he, where
did he come from, and so forth. On these heads Dick's account was
scanty; Quisante's father had grown wine in Spain; and Quisante himself
had an old aunt in London.

"Not much of a genealogy," she suggested. Dick was absurd enough to
quote "_Je suis un ancetre_." "Oh, if you're as silly as that!" she
exclaimed with an annoyed laugh.

"He's the man we want."

"You and Jimmy?"

"The country," Dick explained gravely. He had plenty of humour for other
subjects, but Quisante, it seemed, was too sacred. "Look here," he went
on. "Come and meet him again. Amy's going out of town next week and
we'll have a little party for him."

"That happens best when Amy's away?"

"Well, women are so----"

"Yes, I know. I'm a woman. I won't come."

Dick looked at her not sourly but sadly, and turned to his other
neighbour. May was left to sit in silence for five minutes; then a pause
in Dick's talk gave her time to touch him lightly on the arm and to say
when he turned, "Yes, I will, and thank you."

But she said nothing about the weaselly flirtation.

CHAPTER II.

MOMENTS.

At the little dinner which Lady Richard's absence rendered more easy
there were only the Benyon brothers (a wag had recently suggested that
they should convert themselves into Quisante Limited), Mrs. Gellatly,
Morewood the painter, and the honoured guest. Morewood was there because
he was painting a kit-cat of Quisante for the host (Heaven knew in what
corner Lady Richard would suffer it to hang), and Mrs. Gellatly because
she had expressed a desire to meet Lady May Gaston. Quisante greeted May
with an elaborate air of remembrance; his handshake was so ornate as to
persuade her that she must always hate him, and that Dick Benyon was as
foolish as his wife thought him. This mood lasted half through dinner;
the worst of Quisante was uppermost, and the exhibition depressed the
others. The brothers were apologetic, Mrs. Gellatly gallantly suave; her
much-lined, still pretty face worked in laborious smiles at every
loudness and