"Charming, most charming, but full of politics and that sort of
thing, eh?"
To Weston Marchmont it seemed simplest to laugh and say, "I suppose so."
Sir Winterton's mind had need of categories, and was best not burdened
with the complexities of an individual. But Jimmy was not so wise.
"I don't think she cares a hang about politics, except so far as
Quisante's concerned in them," he said.
Sir Winterton looked more puzzled still. "Nothing's any good unless he
keeps his health," he murmured. He was uncomfortable; he liked May very
much, and did not welcome the thought of there being any truth in the
idea of indifference and carelessness about her husband at which Lady
Mildmay had sorrowfully hinted. "That's his wife's first business
anyhow," he ended, a trifle defiantly. But his challenge was not taken up
by either of his friends. He went home with his high spirits rather
dashed.
On the Friday Marchmont found himself travelling down to Ashwood in
company with Mr. Morewood. The painter had an extreme fit of his mocking
acidity; he refrained his tongue from nobody and showed no respect for
what might be guessed to be delicate points with his companion.
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