away."

"He's the sort of man who's a beastly cad."

He regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, but she had stung
him to the quick. Her next words did so again.

"Then, if so, I hope you won't find it necessary to repeat the
information. I mistook him for something very high--very high and noble;
and, if you don't mind, I'd rather go on doing it."

She swept him with a look such as he knew she must be capable of giving,
though he had never before seen it. The next second she had slipped
between the portieres into the hail. He heard her pause there.

It was inevitable that Guion's words should return to him: "Half in love
with him--as it is."

"That's rot," he assured himself. He had only to call up the image of
Davenant's hulking figure and heavy ways to see what rot it was. He
himself was not vain of his appearance; he had too much to his credit to
be obliged to descend to that; but he knew he was a distinguished man,
and that he looked it. The woman who could choose between him and
Davenant would practically have no choice at all. That seemed to him
conclusive.

Nevertheless, it was with a view to settling this question beyond
resurrection that he followed her into the hall. He found her standing
with the note-book still in her hand.

He came softly behind her and looked over her shoulder, his face close
to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she tried to write.

"I'm sorry I said what I did," he whispered.

She stayed her pencil long enough to say: "I hope you're still sorrier
for having thought it."

"I'm sorry you _know_ I think it. Since it affects you so deeply--"

"It affects me deeply to see you can be unjust."

"I'm more than unjust. I'm--well you can fancy what I am, when I say
that I know some one who thinks you're more than half in love with this
fellow--as it is."

"Is that papa?"

"I don't see that it matters who it is. The only thing of importance is
whether you are or not."

"If you mean that as a question, I shall have to let you answer it
yourself."

"Would you tell me if--if you were?"

"What would be the use of telling you a thing that would make you
unhappy and that I couldn't help?"

"Am I to understand, then, that you _are_ half in love with him?"

She continued the effort to write.

"I think I've a right to press that question," he resumed. "Am I, or am
I not, to understand--"

She turned slowly. Her face was flushed, her eyes were misty.