"That man," said Hannay, "is the best man I know. You've married, dear lady, my dearest and most intimate friend. He's a saint—a Bayard." He flung the name at her defiantly, and with a gesture he emphasised the crescendo of his thought. "A preux chevalier, sans peur" said Mr. Hannay, "et sans reproche."
Having delivered his soul, he sat, still heavily, in silence.
Anne repressed the rising of her indignation. To her it was as if he had been defending her husband against some accusation brought by his wife.
And so, indeed, he was. Poor Hannay had been conscious of her attitude—conscious under her pure and austere eyes, of his own shortcomings, and it struck him that Majendie needed some defence against her judgment of his taste in friendship.
When the door closed behind the Majendies, Mr. Gorst was left the last lingering guest.
"Poor Wallie," said Mrs. Hannay.
"Poor Wallie," said Mr. Hannay, and sighed.
"What do you think of her?" said the lady to Mr. Gorst.
"Oh, I think she's magnificent."
"Do you think he'll be able to live up to it?"