"And what did he say?"
"He said he didn't see it in the light I did."
A faint smile came on the face of Mr. Quisanté's wife.
"But you could make him see it," urged Dick. May smiled at him for a brief moment and then looked out to the river again.
"It'll be deuced awkward for him if they get hold of his back speeches," said Dick with gloomy satisfaction.
"Oh, everybody's back speeches are what you call deuced awkward." A moment later she went on, "What does it all come to, after all? We must take things as they are; we mustn't be quixotic, we mustn't quarrel with our bread-and-butter."
Dick looked at her with evident surprise, even with dismay.
"You think it all right?" he asked.
"It's not for me to say. Am I to sit in judgment on my husband? Anyhow people do just the same thing every day. You know that as well as I do, Dick." Just on the last words her voice grew softer; he might have caught a hint of entreaty, had not his mind been fixed on his own wrongs and the betrayal of his favourite cause. "I'm assuming that what you say is true," she added, more coldly again.
When Dick left her, it was to go home to his wife and tell her, and Mrs. Gellatly whom he found with her, that he did not understand what had come over May Gaston—May Quisanté, he corrected himself. Not understanding, he proved naturally quite unable to explain. Lady Richard was more equal to the occasion.