"
"I'm off," said he. "But why doesn't Quisante like the old gentleman's
picture, and why do you keep it there if he doesn't?"
"And why are none of us perfect--except perhaps the Mildmays? Good-bye."
She gave him her hand. "Oh, by the way," she went on, calling him back
after he had turned, "have you ever had anything to do with promoting
companies or anything of that kind?"
"Well, no, I can't say I have."
"Is it necessarily disreputable?"
"Oh, no," he smiled. "Not necessarily. In fact it's an essential feature
in the life of a commercial nation." He was mockingly grave again.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Marchmont. An essential feature of the life in
a commercial nation! That's very good." She broke into a laugh. "Now I've
got something agreeable to say," she said. He did not move till she shook
her head violently at him and pointed to the door. As he went out, she
turned back to Mr. Foster's picture, murmuring, "It's no use my setting
up for a martyr. Martyrs don't giggle half the time." Had Marchmont heard
her, the word "giggle" would have stirred him to real indignation; it was
so inappropriate to that low reluctant mirth-laden laugh of hers, which
seemed to reveal the feeling that it mocked and extorted the pity that it
could not but deride.
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