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But she had come to hate this duty; she would rather have left
things alone; as a simple matter of inclination, she wished that she felt
free to sit and smile at Quisante as she had at old Foster the maltster.
She could not; Foster was not part of her life, near and close to her,
her chosen husband, the father of her child. Unless she clung to her
effort, and to her paradoxical much-disappointed hope, her life and the
thought of what she had done with it would become unendurable. Dick and
his wife had not quite understood what had come over her.
If Mr. Foster was diplomatic, so was she; she set before her husband
neither Dick's complaints nor her own misgivings in their crudity; she
started by asking how his change of front would affect people and
instanced Dick and herself only as examples of how the thing might strike
certain minds. She must feed him with the milk of rectitude, for its
strong meat his stomach was hopelessly unready. But he was suspicious,
and insisted on hearing what Dick Benyon had said; so she told him pretty
accurately.


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