For triumph it was that night. Who could doubt his sincerity,
who question the injured honour that rang like a trumpet through his
words? And who could throw any further slur on No. 77, thus splendidly
championed, vindicated, and almost sanctified? Never yet in Henstead had
they heard him so inspired; to May herself it seemed the finest thing he
had yet done; and even young Terence, when he read it, felt glad that he
had left Henstead by the morning train.
As Quisante sank into his chair amid a tumult of applause, Foster winked
across the platform at May; but little Japhet Williams was clapping his
hands as madly as any man among them. Who could not congratulate him, who
could not praise him, who could not feel that he was a man to be proud of
and a man to serve? Yet most undoubtedly No. 77 was untrue or at least
misleading, and Alexander Quisante knew it. Undoubtedly he had said "No
more of it." And now he had pinned it as his colours to the mast. May
found herself looking at him with as fresh an interest and as great a
fear as in the first weeks of their marriage.
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