Everything was on this fling of the dice then; and
it seemed to him almost iniquitous that he should lose because Sir
Winterton was bluff and cheery and his wife kind and sweet. His face was
hard and cunning as he leant across towards old Foster and said in a low
voice, with a sneering smile,
"I suppose there's nothing against this admirable gentleman?"
Old Foster started a little, recollecting perhaps that fine passage in
the speech which opened the campaign, the passage which defined the broad
public lines of the contest and loftily disclaimed any personal attack or
personal animosity. But the next moment he smiled in answer, smiled
thoughtfully, as he tapped his teeth with the handle of his pen-knife.
Quisante sat puffing at a cigar and looking straight at him with
observant searching eyes.
"Anything against him, eh?" asked Foster in a ruminative tone.
"They've been ready enough to ask where I come from, and how I live, and
so on."
"They know all that about Sir Winterton, you see, sir."
"Yes, confound them." The keen eyes were still on Foster; the fat old man
shifted his position a little and ceased to meet their regard.
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