"
"I'll agree, but I don't like his hands or his brains either."
"He'll mount high."
"As high as Haman. I shouldn't be the least surprised to see it."
"Well, I'm not going to give him up because he doesn't shake hands at
the latest fashionable angle."
"All right, Dick. And I'm not going to take him up because he's a dab at
rodomontade."
"And you neither of you need fight about him," May put in, laughing.
They joined in her laugh, each excusing himself by good-natured abuse of
the other.
There was no question of a quarrel, but the divergence was complete,
striking, and even startling. To one all was black, to the other all
white; to one all tin, to the other all gold. Was there no possibility
of compromise? As she sat between the two, May thought that a
discriminating view of Quisante ought to be attainable, not an
oscillation from disgust to admiration, but a well-balanced stable
judgment which should allow full value to merits and to defects, and sum
up the man as a whole. Something of the sort she tried to suggest;
neither disputant would hear of it, and Marchmont went off with an
unyielding assertion that the man was a cad, no more and no less than a
cad.
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