"You? You didn't show much sign of exhaustion. I never heard you talk so
well."

"Did I talk well?"

"Yes. Almost too well."

"Too much, you mean. Well, I had to talk, when nobody else did. Besides,
I did it for a purpose."

But what his purpose was Majendie did not say.

Anne had been human enough to enjoy a performance so far beyond the range
of her anticipations. She was glad, above all, that Walter had made
himself acceptable in Thurston Square. But when she came to think of
what was, what must be known of him in Scale, she was appalled by his
incomprehensible ease of attitude. She reflected that this must have been
the first time he had dined in Thurston Square since the scandal. Was it
possible that he did not realise the insufferable nature of that
incident, the efforts it must have cost to tolerate him, the points that
had been stretched to take him in? She felt that it was impossible to
exaggerate the essential solemnity of that evening. They had met
together, as it were, to celebrate Walter's return to the sanctities
and proprieties he had offended. He had been formally forgiven and
received by the society which (however Fanny Eliott might explain away
its action) had most unmistakably cast him out. She had not expected him
to part with his indomitable self-possession under the ordeal, but she
could have wished that he had borne himself with a little more modesty.
He had failed to perceive the redemptive character of the feast, he had