scue.
Something of the same unreasoning impulse rose up within him now--the
impulse to save--the kind of impulse that takes no account of the merit
of the person in peril, seeing only the danger.

But these promptings were dumb in him for the moment from lack of
co-ordination. The two or three things he might have said seemed to
strangle each other in the attempt to get right of way. In response to
Guion's confidences he could only mumble something incoherent and pass
on to the drawing-room door. It was a wide opening, hung with portieres,
through which he could see Olivia Guion standing by the crackling wood
fire, a foot on the low fender. One hand rested lightly on the
mantelpiece, while the other drew back her skirt of shimmering black
from the blaze. Drusilla Fane, at the piano, was strumming one of
Chopin's more familiar nocturnes.

He was still thinking of this glimpse when, a half-hour later, he said
to Rodney Temple, as they walked homeward in the moonlight: "I haven't
yet told you what I came back for."

"Well, what is it?"

"I thought--that is, I hoped--that if I did the way might open up for me
to do what might be called--well, a little good."

"What put that into your head?" was the old man's response to this
stammering confession.

"I suppose the thought occurred to me on general principles. I've always
understood it was the right thing to attempt."

"Oh, right. That's another matter. Doing right is as easy as drawing
breath. It's a habit, like any other. To start out to do good is much
like saying you'll add a cubit to your stature. But you can always do
right. Do right, and the good'll take care of itself."

Davenant reflected on this in silence as they tramped onward. By this
time they had descended Tory Hill, and were on the dike that outlines
the shores of the Charles.

By a common impulse both Temple and Davenant kept silent concerning
Guion. On leaving Tory Hill they had elected to walk homeward, the
ladies taking the carriage. The radiant moonlight and the clear, crisp
October air helped to restore Davenant's faculties to a normal waking
condition after the nightmare of Guion's hints. Fitting what he supposed
must be the facts into the perspective of common life, to which the
wide, out-of-door prospect offered some analogy, they were, if not less
appalling, at least less overwhelming. Without seeing what was to be
done much more clearly than he had seen an hour ago, he had a freer
consci