Foster was obviously sincere, but she looked at him with
surprise; his religion came in such odd flashes across the homely tints
of his worldly wisdom and placid acceptance of things and men as he
happened to find them. Henstead was not the Kingdom of Heaven, and he
did not pretend to think it wise to act on the assumption that it was.
Like Quisante, he did not set up for being superhuman--nor set other
people up for it either. May felt that there were lessons to be learnt
here; nay, that she was making some progress in them; though she
wondered now and then what Weston Marchmont would think of the lessons
and of her progress in them.
"The worst of it is," she went on, "that I'm afraid one has to say a lot
of things that are not exactly quite true."
"Truer than the other side," Mr. Foster affirmed emphatically, his
corpulence seeming to give weight to the dictum as he threw himself
forward in his chair.
"Relative truth!" laughed May. "Like No. 77?"
"You must ask Mr. Quisante about that."
"Oh, no, I won't. I'll listen to his speeches about it.
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