Quisante listened with a smile, gently tapping the table with
his fingers. May turned from him to seek again her friends' faces in the
hall; this time she met their gaze; they were both looking at her with
pitying eyes; the instant they saw her glance, they avoided it. What did
that mean? It meant that they were not of Aunt Maria's party. The kindly
compassionate look of those two men went to her heart; it brought back
reality and pierced through the pretence, the grand pretence, which
everybody, herself included, had been weaving. An impulse of fear laid
hold of her; involuntarily she put out her hand towards Foster who had
just finished his speech and was sitting down. She meant to tell him to
stop the meeting, to send the people home, to help her to persuade
Quisante to go back to the hotel and not to speak. Foster looked round to
see what she wanted, but at the moment Quisante was already on his feet.
"It's nothing," May whispered, withdrawing her hand. It was too late now,
the thing must go forward now, whatever the end of it might be, whatever
the friendly pity of those eyes might seem to say.
Pages:
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462