A burst of laughter came from Quisanté's group; he had made some joke and they all applauded him. Tillman stood for a moment longer before him, then gave a queer jerk of his head, and turned sharp round on his heel. He came back towards where she stood. She took a step forward and thus crossed his path, Marchmont and the Dean standing on either side of her.
"You remember me, Dr. Tillman?" she asked. "I'm Mr. Quisanté's wife, you know."
He stood still, looking at her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows.
"Take him home then," he said sharply. "It was madness to let him come here at all. You're flying in the face of the advice you've had. Oh, I know about it. Let me tell you, you're very lucky to have got through so far."
"We--we're through all right now," she said.
"Are you? I hope so. The man's in a high state of excitement now, and high states of excitement aren't good for him." He paused and added impatiently, "Have you no influence over him? Can none of you do anything with him?"
"He won't like it if I go to him," May whispered.
"I'll go," said the Dean, stepping forward.
"Yes," said Tillman, "go and tell him Lady May Quisanté wants him."
The Dean started off on his errand. The doctor's manner grew a little gentler.
"You couldn't be expected to know," he said. "But in a thing like this you mustn't think he's all right because he looks all right. He'll look his best just at the time when there's most--well, when he isn't. I hope he's going to keep quiet after this?"
"Yes, yes. At least we've arranged that. Weston, do go and bring him to me."
Quisanté's group opened, and he began to move towards them. But at every step somebody stopped him, to shake hands and to say a few words of thanks or praise. The Dean kept urging him on gently, but he would not be hurried.
"Now take him straight home," said Tillman. "Good-night." And hardly waiting for May's bow he turned away and disappeared among the throng that was making for the door.
Quisanté, at last escaping from his admirers, came up to his wife. His eyes were very bright, and he ran to her, holding out both his hands. She put hers in his and said, "We must go home. You'll be worn out."
"Worn out? Not I! But you look worn out. Come along. Ah, Marchmont, this is a compliment indeed."