lost their charm. Thus she oscillated between the
moods produced by an intense intellectual admiration on the one hand and
an intense antipathy of the feelings on the other; and in this
uncomfortable balancing she had the prospect of spending her life. Well,
Aunt Maria had lived in it for years, and Aunt Maria could not be called
an unhappy woman. If only Quisante would not do anything too outrageous,
she felt that she would be able to endure. Since she could not change,
she must be content to compromise, to ignore--if only he would not drive
her from that refuge too.

"I suppose she sees what the man is by now," said Lady Richard to
Morewood, whom she had been trying to entice into sympathising with her
over the scandalous treatment of the Crusade.

"My dear Lady Richard, she always saw what he is much better than you
do, even better than I do. But it's one thing to see what a man is and
quite another to see what effect his being it will have on yourself from
time to time."

"What he's done about Dick and the Dean is so characteristic."

"For example," Morewood pursued, "you know what a bore is, but at one
time he kills you, at another he faintly amuses you. You know what a
Dean is" (he raised his voice so as to let the Dean, who was reading in
the window, overhear); "at one time the abuse exasperates you, at
another such splendid indifference to the progress of thought catches
your fancy. No doubt Lady May experiences the same varieties of feeling
towards her worthy husband."

"Well, I've done with him," said little Lady Richard. Morewood laughed.

"The rest of us haven't," he said, "and I don't think we ever shall till
the fellow dies somehow effectively."

"What a blessing for poor May!" cried Lady Richard impulsively.

Morewood was a long while answering; even in the end what he said could
not be called an answer. But he annoyed Lady Richard by shaking his
finger at her and observing,

"Ah, there you raise a very interesting question."

"Very," agreed the Dean from the window seat.

"I didn't know you were listening," said Lady Richard, wheeling round.

"I always listen about Mr. Quisante."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Morewood. "I told you so!" But Lady Richard did not
even pretend to understand his exultation or what he meant. Whatever he
had happened to mean about poor May, the Dean was not Alexander
Quisante's wife.

CHAPTER XI.

SEVENTY-SEVEN AN