Marchmont saw, though Blair did not, that she jested uneasily and reaped
no pleasure, although she reaped amusement, from her clever recognition
of her husband's style. She had spoken in much the same tone about the
difference with Dick Benyon and the suspicions which Dick cast on "our
sincerity." He came near to perceiving and understanding what was in her
mind--what had been there as she watched Quisante sleeping. The first
suggestion of ferreting out something had come from him, purely in the
way of a cynical jeer, just because nobody would ever suspect him of
seriously contemplating or taking part in such a thing. Well, May
Quisante did not apparently feel quite so confident about her husband.
Blair bustled off, with a parting mysterious hint that they must lose no
time in preparing for the fray--it might begin any week now--and May's
face relaxed into a more genuine smile.
"He does enjoy it so," she explained. But Marchmont was not thinking of
Blair. He asked her abruptly,
"You'll go to Henstead and help him, I suppose?"
"Of course.
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