"Damn Japhet
Williams," said Quisante with a laugh, and Quisante's wife found herself
wishing that he would "damn" a few more men and things. It was just the
habit that he wanted, just the thing that Marchmont and Dick Benyon and
men like them had. Oh, if he could win and keep it!
"He must consider local feeling," said old Foster, pinching a fat chin in
fear and doubt.
"No, he needn't, no, he needn't now," she cried. "He'll carry it with
him, whatever he does now. Don't you see? He can take them all with him
now. Wait till you've heard him to-morrow night!"
Here was happiness for her and for him, but where else? Not in the
compromise, not in the year of quiet. It seemed to be for this that they
had come together, in this that they could help one another, feel with
one another, be really at one. And this could not be. The tears stood in
May Quisante's eyes as she turned away from the pleasant shrewd old
schemer; his picture should stand no more on the mantelpiece. But now it
seemed again strange and incredible that this, the great career, could
not be; Aunt Maria's was the creed for a time like this.
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