Methuen's Colonial Library

QUISANTÉ

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

A Man of Mark
Mr. Witt's Widow
Father Stafford
A Change of Air
Half a Hero
The Prisoner of Zenda
The God in the Car
The Dolly Dialogues
Comedies of Courtship
The Chronicles of Count Antonio
The Heart of Princess Osra
Phroso
Simon Dale
Rupert of Hentzau
The King's Mirror

QUISANTÉ

By

ANTHONY HOPE

METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1900

Colonial Library

CONTENTS

• ChapterPage

1. DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER1
2. MOMENTS16
3. SANDRO'S WAY31
4. HE'S COMING!46
5. WHIMSY-WHAMSIES65
6. ON DUTY HILL84
7. ADVICE FROM AUNT MARIA101
8. CONTRA MUNDUM120
9. LEAD US NOT—137
10. PRACTICAL POLITICS155
11. SEVENTY-SEVEN AND SUSY SINNETT176
12. A HIGHLY CORRECT ATTITUDE196
13. NOT SUPERHUMAN215
14. OPEN EYES235
15. A STRANGE IDEA257
16. THE IRREVOCABLE279
17. DONE FOR?301
18. FOR LACK OF LOVE?321
19. DEATH DEFIED339
20. THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW355
21. A RELICT371

Transcriber's Note

QUISANTÉ.

CHAPTER I.

DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER.

A shrunken sallow old lady, dressed in rusty ill-shaped black and adorned with an evidently false 'front' of fair hair, sat in a tiny flat whose windows overlooked Hyde Park from south to north. She was listening to a tall loose-built dark young man who walked restlessly about the little room as he jerked out his thoughts and challenged the expression of hers. She had known him since he was a baby, had brought him up from childhood, had always served him, always believed in him, never liked him, never offered her love nor conciliated his. His father even, her only brother Raphael Quisanté, she had not loved; but she had respected Raphael. Alexander—Sandro, as she alone of all the world called him—she neither loved nor respected; him she only admired and believed in. He knew his aunt's feelings well enough; she was his ally, not his friend; kinship bound them, not affection; for his brain's sake and their common blood she was his servant, his heart she left alone.

Thus aware of the truth, he felt no obligation towards her, not even when, as now, he came to ask money of her; what else should she do with her money, where else lay either her duty or her inclination? She did not love him, but he was her one interest, the only tie that united her with the living moving world and the alluring future years, more precious to her since she could see so few of them.

"I don't mean to make myself uncomfortable," said Miss Quisanté. "How much do you want?" He stopped and turned round quickly with a gleam of eagerness in his eyes, as though he had a vision of much wealth. "No, no," she added with a surly chuckle, "the least you'll take is the most I'll give."

"I owe money."

"Who to?" she asked, setting her cap uncompromisingly straight. "Jews?"

"No. Dick Benyon."

"That money you'll never pay. I shan't consider that."

The young man's eyes rested on her in a long sombre glance; he seemed annoyed but not indignant, like a lawyer whose formal plea is brushed aside somewhat contemptuously by an impatient