He smiled and tapped his forehead lightly with his hand. "It's
nothing," he said. "You were pleased, weren't you, to-night?" Again he
put his hands in hers. She found no word to say and they stood like this
for a moment. The cheers ceased, the crowd outside was puzzled. Marchmont
jumped up from his chair and walked forward hastily.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
Neither heeded him. May's eyes were set in terror on her husband's face;
for now she was holding him up by the power of her hands gripped in his;
without them he would fall. Nay, he would fall now!
He spoke in a low thick voice. "It's come," he said, "it's come." And he
sank back into Weston Marchmont's arms, his wife letting go his hands and
standing rigid.
Old Foster ran in again, calling, "Are you ready, sir?" He found his
answer. Alexander Quisante would speak no more in Henstead. He was
leaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty.
May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand and
kissed it.
"I--I--I spoke well?" he muttered.
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