She pleaded no
more that he had killed her love; it had never been there to kill. Had
she left him to find a woman who loved him in and for himself, not for
his doings, not for the interest of him, that woman might now be winning
him by love from the open jaws of death.
Yet again laughter, obstinate and irrepressible, shot often in a jarring
streak of inharmonious colour across the sombre fabric of her thoughts.
He was not only mad, not only splendid--he seemed both to her--he was
absurd too at moments, often when he was with Aunt Maria. Letters came in
great numbers, from political followers, from women prominent in society,
from constituents, from old Foster and Japhet Williams at Henstead, even
from puissant Lady Castlefort; they wondered, applauded, implored,
flattered, in every key of that sweet instrument called praise. Quisante
read them out, pluming and preening his feathers, strutting about,
crowing. He would repeat the passages he liked, asking his wife's
approbation; that he must have, it seemed. She gave it with what
heartiness she could, and laughed only in her sleeve.
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