But then, as she had hinted to Morewood, what of
life? Was it not conclusive as to the merits of that also? Suddenly Fred
Wentworth's voice broke across her meditation.
"If you asked me what I wanted," he said in a tone of great seriousness,
"upon my honour I don't know what I should say, except another pony." He
paused and added, "A real good 'un, you know, Lady Richard."
You might trust in God in an almost Quietist fashion (nothing less was at
the bottom of Mrs. Baxter's homely serenity), you might exhaust
philosophy and the researches of the wise, or you might merely be in
excellent health and spirits. Any of these three seemed enough to exclude
that painful reaching out to dim unlikely possibilities which must in her
mind henceforward be nicknamed whimsy-whamsies. But to May's temper the
question about life came up again. She swayed between the opposing sides,
as she had swayed between yes and no when Marchmont challenged her with
his love.
Lady Richard's verdict about Quisante--she gave it with an air of
laboured reasonableness--was that he proved worse on the whole than even
she had anticipated.
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