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But the sympathy
and the apprehensions could make no treaty; fierce war waged between
them.
That night the turn of events served Quisante. He seemed ill and tired,
yet he had flashes of brilliancy. Again it was made plain that, all said
and done, his was the master mind there; even Lady Richard had to listen
and Fred Wentworth to wonder unwillingly where the fellow got his
notions. After dinner he talked to them, and they gave him all their ears
until he chose to cease and sank back wearied in his chair. But then came
the contrast. The Dean went to the library, Lady Richard strolled out of
doors with Fred, Mrs. Baxter withdrew into seclusion with a novel and a
petticoat, Dick Benyon asked May to walk in the garden with him, and when
she refused went off to play billiards with Morewood. May had pleaded
letters to write and sat down to the task. The man who a little while ago
had been the centre of attention was left alone. He wandered about idly
for a few moments, then dropped into a chair, seeming too tired to read,
looking fretful, listless, solitary and sad.


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