sciences. He was, therefore, received in Thurston Square on his own as
well as his wife's merits. He too had his little weaknesses. Almost
savagely determined in matters of business, at home he liked to sit in
a chair and fondle the illusion of indifference. There was no part of
Mr. Eliott's mental furniture that was not a fixture, yet he scorned the
imputation of conviction. A hunted thing in his wife's drawing-room, Mr.
Eliott had developed in a quite remarkable degree the protective
colouring of stupidity.

"How can she?" said Miss Proctor. "She's a saint herself, and she ought
to know the difference."

"Perhaps," said Dr. Gardner, "that's why she doesn't."

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Eliott, "it was the original attraction. There
could be no other for Anne."

"The attraction was the opportunity for self-sacrifice. Whatever she's
makes of Mr. Majendie, she's bent on making a martyr of herself." Miss
Proctor met the vague eyes of her circle with a glance that was defiance
to all mystery. "It's quite simple. This marriage is a short cut to
canonisation, that's all."

Then it was that little Mrs. Gardner spoke. She had been married for a
year, and her face still wore its bridal look of possession that was
peace, the look that it would wear when Mrs. Gardner was seventy. Her
voice had a certain lucid and profound precision.

"Anne was always certain of herself. And since she cares for Mr. Majendie
enough to accept him and to accept his sister, and the rather _triste_