"Let me be the first to congratulate you," said a gentle voice.
She turned and found Lady Mildmay beside her; Sir Winterton's wife was smiling, but there were tears in her eyes.
"And do get your husband home to bed; he looks terribly, terribly tired. I'm afraid he's not nearly as strong as Winterton; but I'm sure you take great care of him."
"Not so much as I ought to." Lady Mildmay, accustomed to straightforward emotions, was puzzled at the half-bitter half-merry tone. "I mean I egg him on when perhaps I ought to hold him back. I know he ought to rest, but I never want him to—never really want it, you know." Lady Mildmay still looked puzzled. "He's at his best working," said May.
"Well, but you must want him to yourself sometimes anyhow, and that's a rest for him."
Oh, the differences of people and fates! That was May's not original but irresistible reflection when Lady Mildmay left her. Want him to herself! Never—or never as Lady Mildmay meant, anyhow. She only wanted a good place whence to look at him.
She had one more encounter before Jimmy Benyon came to take her home. Japhet Williams came up to her and made her shake hands.
"We have got a representative in whom we can have confidence," he said.
"I hope so, Mr. Williams." She smiled to think how exactly she was speaking the truth—a rare privilege in social intercourse.
"Don't think that I resent in any way the distant attitude which Mr. Quisanté thought it desirable to take up in regard to my action," pursued Japhet; it seemed odd that such a coil of words could be unrolled from so small a body. "My course was incumbent on me. I recognise that his attitude was proper for him."