A troubled look spread over the broad face of that provincial diplomatist,
Mr. Foster the maltster; he knew where the danger lay. They would come to
Quisante's meetings, applaud him, admire him, be proud of his efforts to
please them; but when the day came would they not think (and would not
their wives remind them) that Sir Winterton was a neighbour and a friend
and that Lady Mildmay was kind and sweet? Then, having shouted for
Quisante, would they not in the peaceful obscurity of the ballot put
their cross opposite Mildmay's name?
"I'm not easy about it, sir, that I'm not," said Foster, wiping his broad
red brow.
Quisante was not easy either, as his lined face and his high-strung
manner showed; he was half-killing himself and he was not easy. So much
hung on it; before all England he had backed himself to win, and in the
strain of his excitement it seemed to him that the stake he laid was his
whole reputation. Was all that to go, and to go on no great issue, but
just because Sir Winterton was bluff and cheery and Lady Mildmay kind and
sweet? Another thing he knew about himself; if he lost this time, he must
be out in the cold at least for a long time; he could not endure another
contest, even if the offer of a candidature came to him, even though Aunt
Maria found the funds.
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