"
Quisante came home to a late lunch; he was still ill, but his depression
had vanished; he ate, drank, and talked, his spirit rising above the woes
of his body.
"What have you done this morning?" Fanny asked.
"Held a meeting in the dinner-hour, had ten interviews, and the usual
palaver with Japhet."
"How are Mr. Williams' feelings?" asked May.
"He's all right now," said Quisante, smiling. Then he added, "Oh, and
we've wired to town for two hundred and fifty more of 77."
Then May knew what was going to happen. Quisante was roused. The placard
was untrue, at least misleading, and he knew it was; he might have
retreated before young Terence and sheltered himself by an inglorious
disclaimer. That, as Aunt Maria said, was not Sandro's way. No. 77 came
down by the afternoon train, a corps of bill-posters was let loose, and
as they drove to the evening meeting the town was red with it. Withdrawn,
disclaimed, apologised for? It was insisted on, relied on, made a trump
card of, flung full in young Terence's audacious face. May sat by her
husband in that strange mixed mood that he roused in her, half pride,
half humiliation; scorning him because he would not bow before the truth,
exulting in the audacity, the dash, and the daring of him, at the spirit
that caught victory out of danger and turned mistake into an occasion of
triumph.
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