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"That's twisting your own words, Miss Quisante. I don't think he's that
sort of man at all; he isn't the least your--your iron adventurer. He's
full of emotion, of feeling, of--well, almost of poetry. Oh, not always
good poetry, I know. But how funny that I should be defending him and you
attacking him; it would be much more natural the other way round."
"I don't see that. I know him better than you do. Now he's to champion
the Church--or some such nonsense! What's Sandro got to do with your
Church? What does he care about it?"
"He cared about his subject the other evening; you must admit that."
"Oh, his subject! Yes, he cares about it while it's his subject."
May laughed. "I want to take just one liberty, Miss Quisante," she said.
"May I? I want to tell you that I think you're a great deal more than
half wrong about your nephew."
"Even if I am, I'm right enough for practical purposes with the other
part," said the obstinate old woman. She leant forward and spoke with a
sudden bitter emphasis. "It's not all outside, he's wrong inside too.


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